


Johnny Blue-Eyes

by navigatio



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, Not Slash, but try it anyway!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-29
Updated: 2016-04-19
Packaged: 2018-05-17 01:30:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 31
Words: 84,163
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5848678
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/navigatio/pseuds/navigatio
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set in the hiatus after S3. A burglar with a conscience sends DI Lestrade something obtained in a break-in: a box of homemade videotapes recorded by a paedophile with his victims. Sgt Donovan, assigned to the case, thinks a child featured in one of the videos looks familiar. . . Warning: The guy's a paedophile, in case you didn't catch that. Multi-chapter fic with a slow build. This story was beta-ed by the incomparable 7percent. Cross-posted on FFN.</p>
<p>Epilogue posted, complete! Go on, read it!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Nothing good happens on a Tuesday

Johnny Blue Eyes

-*-

Author's note: This story has been beta'ed and Brit-picked (aka tenderly ripped to shreds) by the lovely sevenpercent, and put back together much better than before. I am very appreciative of her input! If you haven't read her fantastic stories, you should!

This story is set about ten months after the end of His Last Vow. John and Mary have a 8-month-old daughter named Alice. No AU, no pairings. There are multiple chapters, which I intend to post on Tuesdays and Fridays.

-*-

Chapter 1: Nothing good happens on a Tuesday

-*-

The box arrived on a Tuesday, just before lunchtime. D.I. Greg Lestrade was sitting at his desk, stomach grumbling, trying to convince himself to finish just one more report when he first heard the commotion down the hall. He tried to ignore it and focus on hunting and pecking at the keyboard of his ancient desktop computer, but his concentration was broken when D.S. Donovan stuck her head in the doorway.

"Suspicious package, sir," she said breathlessly. "They're evacuating the building."

Shit.

Lestrade fumbled with the mouse to save his work quickly before running out the door. He had worked hard on this report, and he didn't want to lose the almost finished product. The McClinchy homicide was the most important case he had had in at least six months. Lord Joseph and Lady Millicent McClinchy, murdered in their home with all the doors locked. No sign of forced entry. A neat, round bullet hole in the middle of Lord Joseph's forehead; signs of struggle from the wife, whose throat had been cut, no weapon to be found. Several post-mortem cuts on her arm, which looked random, but that Sherlock said were a pattern that meant something apparently only he understood. Endless chasing after leads, none of which had panned out yet. Sherlock said it was the work of Moriarty, or rather Moriarty's gang, as he was still convinced the man himself was dead. Lestrade wasn't sure if he believed that or not, but he was keen to solve this case so the papers would shut up about Scotland Yard being unable to do their jobs.

The computer was taking its sweet time saving, of course. It always did when Lestrade was in a hurry. Infuriating technology. Making everyone dumber.

Donovan's head popped around the doorframe again. "Boss?" she queried, eyebrows raised. "We gotta go."

"Yeah, yeah, ok. I'm coming." Lestrade followed her out the door, leaving the computer to finish saving on its own. With his luck, the package would turn out to be a bomb and the whole building would go up in flames, taking his unfinished report and all the evidence with it. That was about how his week was going. And it was only Tuesday.

-*-

They stood out in the rain for at least fifteen minutes, watching down the block as men in black jackets came and went, but no one told them a thing, of course. A few reporters showed up and stuck microphones in the faces of various officers, but of course none of them knew anything. Lestrade kept his head down and his mouth shut, and eventually the reporters packed up their gear and left disappointed.

As the rain was tapering off to a drizzle, a slight man with a sparse mustache and a dark blue anorak approached the group from the direction of NSY, hunched over against the wind. Lestrade saw him speaking to Sergeant Riordan, and then the sergeant turned and pointed his direction. So they finally figured out who was in charge. Maybe he could get some answers now.

The EOD officer walked up to Lestrade with his eyebrows raised. "DI Greg Lestrade?" God, he was young. Was he even old enough to be out of the academy? The mustache looked like it had been drawn on with an eyebrow pencil. A name tag pinned to his jacket said "Scotzia."

"That's me. What's going on?" He almost added "Laddie", but stopped himself at the last minute. The little sot probably outranked him.

"I need you to come with me please, and the rest of your men can go back into the building."

"So the bomb threat was a hoax?"

"Yes, sir. Sniffer dog ID'd traces of explosives on a package in the mail room, but we've x-rayed it and determined it's harmless."

Lestrade turned to Donovan, who had been standing beside him pretending like she wasn't listening in. "Tell everyone to get back to work. Oh, and can you check that my computer finished saving that report?"

"I'm on it, Guv," she replied. As Lestrade walked off with Scotzia, he could hear Donovan's raised voice in the background, directing everyone back into the building, and a couple of "Thank God!" and "'Bout time!" comments sounded in reply.

"Why did you need to talk to me?" he asked the EOD officer as they headed down the block to the back delivery door of NSY.

"Package was addressed to you, sir. Looks like video cassettes."

Scotzia opened the door, then stepped back to let Lestrade enter first. Lestrade grumbled to himself at that. The Goddamn kid was holding the door open for him like he was an old man.

The box was ordinary-looking, tan cardboard, about 18" deep by 15" wide by 12" long. Lestrade's name was written with block letters in black marker across the top, along with the address of NSY. There was no return address, but the postmark was the Croydon district of South London.

"Look familiar?" asked Scotzia hopefully.

Lestrade shook his head. "Nope. I don't know anyone in Croydon, as far as I know."

Scotzia held out a penknife with the blade pulled out, handle pointed toward Lestrade. "Would you care to open it?"

Lestrade hrumphed, dug in his pocket and pulled out his own penknife. "I've got it." He pulled on a pair of gloves, then carefully slit open the packing tape and used the tip of the knife to lift the top flap. Inside he saw stacks of chunky videotapes, each encased in a tagboard cover: some white, some yellow and black. Whatever was on these tapes, they were not commercially produced. Someone had recorded these at home. The top videocassette had a letter, "M" and a number, "1978" written neatly on the spine. The handwriting was distinctly different to that on the outside of the box.

When he lifted the other flap, Lestrade discovered a sticky note attached to the top tape. In block letters, the note said simply. "I pickd these up in a burglery last week dont remember whare I got them but I had to pas them on." It wasn't signed. Picked them up in a burglary? What was on these tapes that caused an illiterate housebreaker to suddenly grow a conscience?

"What about the explosives?" he asked Scotzia.

"Just a trace on the outside of the box, apparently. Looks like homemade black powder. The sender of the package could have had some on his hands when he sealed it up and it would register."

When the door to the mailroom opened, Lestrade looked up to discover that Donovan had apparently tracked him down. As soon as he made eye contact, she came and stood next to him with her arms folded, but didn't say anything, although Lestrade was sure she wanted to. He could almost feel the waves of curiosity rolling off her.

Lestrade eased the top cassette out of the box and turned it over in his hands. The rest of the cover was blank. The tape itself was also marked "M 1978", on the spine in the same handwriting. When he slid the tape out of the case, he could see no other marks on it.

"Have we got a player for these?" he asked Donovan. She nodded.

"Media room down the hall."

Lestrade nodded at her to lead the way. The Media Room was not exactly one of his usual haunts. He found all of those knobs and dials a bit intimidating, to be frank. Donovan shot him a knowing grin and headed out, with Lestrade close behind and Scotzia hot on his heels.

In the Media Room, Lestrade scanned the banks of equipment with his brow furrowed. There were so many machines that he didn't recognize and had no idea of the purpose for—ah! There, that one looked familiar, right size slot.

"This one, sir," Donovan said with a smirk, pointing at the machine he had been heading for anyway.

"I knew that."

"Course you did, sir," she responded promptly, causing him to wrinkle his nose at her.

He slid the tape into the machine, and Donovan tapped some mysterious combination of dials and switches to make the telly in the corner flicker to life. At first it was only static, then a scratchy image appeared on the screen. Donovan played with one of the dials and the image resolved itself into a sitting room, with an old-fashioned yellow and green flowered sofa and green shag carpeting. The colors were a bit faded but still recognizable. It was obvious from the hideous décor that the number on the front of the tape, 1978, was the year the recording had been made.

After a few seconds, there was movement across the screen: a man in a brown suit, visible only from the shoulders down, crossed the room and opened a door in the background. Three people entered: a woman, with a baby on her hip, and a boy, about aged eight or nine, who was carrying something large and black in his hand. There was no sound, but it was obvious that the man was greeting him. He shook hands with the woman and then the boy in turn. A minute later, the woman left with the baby, and the man led the boy to a chair on the right side of the room. The boy sat and put the thing he had been carrying on his lap.

"Violin case?" Scotzia guessed. At that moment, the man leaned over with his back to the camera, opened the case, and pulled out a child-sized violin and bow. He lifted it up, out of camera range. They couldn't see or hear what he was doing, but the boy's head was tipped up and he was obviously watching carefully.

"Violin lessons? Why did our burglar feel the need to pass these on to the police?" Lestrade said.

Donovan, apparently not picking up on the fact that he had intended it as a rhetorical question, answered, "There must be more to it than just violin lessons."

"Yeah, obviously. Donovan, keep watching these and tell me what you come up with."

Donovan rolled her eyes. "I was just about to get my lunch."

"All right, fine. After lunch then. Get me something too; I'm starved." With that he headed back to his office to check on the status of his report. Whatever was on those tapes, it paled in comparison to the importance of the McClinchy case.

-*-

An hour later, Sergeant Sally Donovan stuffed the last bite of her sandwich into her mouth, wiped her hands on her trousers, and opened the door to the Media Room with a sigh. The Bomb Disposal team had finished fingerprinting the videotapes and had brought the whole box to the Media Room for her, and she had run out of reasons to put off the task of going through them. She had a feeling she knew what was on them, and she was not looking forward to having her suspicions confirmed.

She slid the first tape, "M 1978", back into the player and fast-forwarded past the section they had already watched. When she got to a section that showed a clear view of the boy's face, she paused the playback and studied him closely. A little chubby, with short, sandy-brown hair and bluish-gray eyes. There was a splash of freckles across his pointy nose. He definitely hadn't hit puberty yet, with traces of baby-fat still clinging to his jawline. She pulled out her DSLR and took a photo of the screen, which she saved as "M 1978". She jotted a description of the boy on her notepad, then continued the playback.

For the next several minutes, the man on the screen (whose whole face was frustratingly always just out of camera range) showed the boy how to hold the violin and scrape the bow across the strings. He moved the boy's fingers into position for a few notes, which the boy obligingly copied. Donovan made a note on her notepad and ran the tape forward some more.

The next time she slowed the playback, the man was seated behind the boy, who was standing between his knees. The man's hands were over the boy's, holding them in the right position. The boy's head blocked her view of the man's face. Still nothing alarming, although the boy looked uncomfortable with the physical contact. She hit the fast-forward again.

A few minutes later, the scene flickered, and suddenly the boy was wearing different clothing, gray trousers and a green blazer with a crest above the left pocket. A school blazer, obviously. She paused the playback and took a photo of the crest, then ran the video forward a bit more and took another shot of his face as well. This was tedious to say the least.

On the screen, the boy put down the violin and took off his blazer, his head tipped up to the man who stood beside him. Then the man sat in the chair and pulled the boy in front of him again. He moved the boy's fingers to the right position for the notes and corrected the angle of the bow.

A few seconds later, the man's hands released the boy's and slid down, fingers trailing, to his belly. The boy stared straight ahead, but Donovan could make out that his cheeks and the tips of his ears had gone red. She didn't blame him. She could feel her own face heating up as she realized where this was going. When the man's hands slid lower in what was a clear violation of the boy's personal space, Donovan slammed her hand on the pause button and squeezed her eyes shut. This was why their burglar had suddenly grown a conscience. The man was a bloody paedophile.

After a long moment with her hands over her face, Donovan shut off the telly and trudged down the hall to Lestrade's office, feet heavy.

She knocked on the frame of the partially open door. "Boss?"

"Yeah?" he said without looking up from his computer screen. His face was scrunched up into a little frown. He was probably having technical difficulties and hadn't yet come to the realization that he wouldn't be able to solve it on his own.

Donovan stepped around his desk and peered over his shoulder. He was working on a report, but the formatting was different, and he clearly didn't know how to fix it. She reached around him and hit the correct function key to toggle back to the correct format.

He grunted "Thanks," and sat back in his chair. "Need something?"

"Yeah, um, I think you ought to see this."

"Those videotapes? What is it?"

She leaned back against the edge of his desk with her arms tightly folded. "He's a paedophile," she said flatly.

"Oh, Jesus." Lestrade pinched the bridge of his nose and took a deep breath. "How many videotapes are there?"

"Thirty-two. I'm only half-way through the first one."

Lestrade sighed. "Ok, I'm assigning this case to you. Keep at it. Take notes."

"All the videos?"

"Yes."

"Sir, I can't—you want me to watch thirty-two videos of little kids getting interfered with?"

"You don't have to watch the whole thing, just enough to get photos of the kids and collect evidence of sexual assault. Please, Donovan. I can't do it. Makes me sick to my stomach just thinking about it."

Donovan sighed and heaved herself off the edge of his desk. "Yes, sir. I'll get on it."

"Good. And thank you."

She waved off his thanks on the way out the door. She would do it, but she didn't have to like it.

First Donovan watched the rest of the video she was in the middle of. A few minutes in the boy's clothing changed again, and then she was forced to watch the man put his hands down the boy's trousers. While it was happening, the boy continued to play his violin with tears rolling down his freckled face, eyes squeezed shut. Then the first video abruptly ended.

When the screen went to static, Donovan let out the breath she hadn't realized she had been holding. She swallowed hard and made some notes, stomach churning, then pulled the video out of the player and slid the second one out of its case. This video was labeled "R 1979" on the spine, which Donovan listed on her notes.

The second video started like the first, with the man greeting a boy and his mother at the door. Donovan fast-forwarded and found a good view of the boy's face. He was a gangly preadolescent, blue-eyed and blond, with a pronounced overbite. She took a photo of his face and started fast-forwarding again. About 20 minutes in, the man was touching him inappropriately too. Jaw clenched, Donovan made a note of it without slowing down the fast-forward.

This tape was longer, and after more than an hour of video (which she fast-forwarded through), the man led the boy to the sofa and started unbuttoning his shirt. The boy began to cry, and the man paused long enough to tip up his chin and gently wipe away his tears. Donovan hit the stop button and put her hands over her face. She couldn't do this. She knew what was coming next and she couldn't watch. In her mind she saw her own younger brother Alex, all dark curls, wide brown eyes and caramel skin. If someone had hurt him like that, she could not be held responsible for the consequences.

With eyes blurring, Donovan ejected the tape and ran her finger over the label. Who was this kid, and why didn't he ever tell his parents? Or tell anyone, for Christ's sake? Obviously he hadn't, because this monster had never been caught.

She numbly slotted the video back into the box with the others. Thirty-two videotapes, with dates ranging from 1978 to 1992. Thirty-two little kids. What happened to all of them? They were adults now. And they had never told a soul.

She skimmed the next two tapes (L 1980 and J 1981), just enough to document the offense and take screenshots of their faces. The boy in tape four (sad green eyes, ginger hair with an unruly cowlick that caused his hair to stand up in front) was wearing a green jumper in the same shade as the blazer on the first boy, with a similar gold insignia. She took a photo of the jumper and the crest, which was unfortunately too blurry to make out properly. She could have Constable Fadil do some research later on primary schools that used that color combination. He was good with computers and eager to please, which was an excellent combination in her book. Those skills were going to be exploited by someone; it might as well be her, she thought cynically.

The fifth video was labeled S 1982. Donovan put it in the player and rested her hand on the fast forward, intending to follow the same procedure. The boy in this video was tiny, only about five or six years old, the youngest of the victims so far. He had a mass of wild black curls that hung down over his forehead, and clear, pale skin.

As soon as his mother left, the boy strode right up to the camera and leaned in with an unbecoming scowl on his narrow face. It startled Donovan so much that she sat back in her chair, blinking hard. It was almost as if he were looking right at her.

On the screen, the boy was saying something, but without sound, she didn't catch what it was. She paused the playback, took a photo (very close-up) of the boy's face, then ran it back to try to figure out what he was saying. Maybe. . . "There's thumb finger on wif. ." But that didn't make any sense. She ran it back and watched it again. On the third time through she realized that he had a lisp, so the 'th' was really meant to be an 's'. So maybe he was saying. . . "There's something wrong with. . ." What? "With the bonsai"? What could that mean?

The boy was looking directly into the camera. None of the other boys had even glanced at the camera, so Donovan doubted they knew it was there. But this little chap had gone up to it immediately. Could the camera be hidden in a bonsai plant, and somehow he had spotted it when the others hadn't? Or maybe known there was something wrong, but not realized what he was looking at?

Donovan paused the playback again and studied his face. Rounded jaw, sweet little lips shaped like a perfect pink cupid's bow. Odd eyes, sort of a mix of bright blue and green. . .

Donovan stared transfixed, mind whirring. Those eyes. . .

-*-

Author's note: Kudos/comment = love :-)


	2. How rare is heterochromia anyway?

"You texted me?"

Donovan looked up from her notes at Lestrade, who was standing just outside the door of the media room as if he were afraid to come in. His eyes flicked to the screen in front of Donovan, and he looked relieved when he saw that it was blank.

"Yeah. Come in and shut the door."

"I told you I didn't want to see any of this shit."

"You'll want to see this one." Donovan cued up the VCR, but waited until Lestrade was seated in the other chair before turning on the monitor. "Ready?"

"Do I have a choice?"

"No." Donovan aimed the remote at the screen, and it lit up with a picture of the boy's thin face surrounded by a cloud of dark curls. "Does that boy look familiar?"

She heard Lestrade give a small gasp and saw out of the corner of her eye that he had sat forward in his chair. "That's Johnny Blue-Eyes!"

Wait, what? Donovan swiveled her chair to look at Lestrade, but his eyes were glued to the screen. "Johnny Blue-Eyes? Who's that?"

"My first case after I made Inspector, ten years ago. Copy of homemade kiddie porn found in the flat of an MP. Videos of this little boy. We called him Johnny Blue-Eyes because of his eyes, of course. Don't know why I didn't recognize that sofa. . ." Lestrade sat back in his chair and shook his head. "This little chap, he never cried. He just stared into the camera the whole time the man was. . . well. It was unnerving. We knew the video was old because of the colors and quality. Spent months trying to track down the source. Kept finding copies of the video all over the country, finally found the distributor, but he died in lockup before he could tell us anything. We never found the kid. My son was about three at the time. Every night I'd go home and hug him, no matter how late it was. Get him out of bed in the middle of the night just to hold him and make sure he was all right." Lestrade gave a humourless laugh at the memory. "My wife thought I was off my rocker. Nearly did go bonkers with that one. Poor little chap."

Donovan raised her eyebrows incredulously at Lestrade. "Johnny Blue-Eyes?"

"Yeah, 'cos those eyes were so blue—"

"No, not blue."

"What? Yeah they are."

"No, look closely. They're only part blue. The top part is green."

Lestrade stood up and leaned in toward the screen to examine the eyes. A moment later he said softly, "Well I'll be damned. With the poor resolution of the copies we found, we never noticed that."

Donovan folded her arms and waited, but he didn't say anything more. Finally she prompted, "Who else do we know with eyes like that?"

Lestrade squinted at the screen for another second, then suddenly leaned back with eyes wide. "You don't mean. . ."

"That's Sherlock."

Now Lestrade had his head cocked like a dog. "No! Couldn't be."

"It is. He's got that disorder with his eyes. I looked it up." She held up her phone and Lestrade took it and squinted at it. "Heterochromia. Eyes two different colors. It's rare."

Lestrade gave up squinting at the phone and pulled a pair of reading glasses out of his pocket. He studied her phone for a moment then handed it back to her. "Not too rare. Six in 1000."

"Let's get him in here and find out."

Now Lestrade gave a scoff. "What am I going to say to him? Are you Johnny Blue-Eyes?"

"Just tell him you have a new piece of evidence on that double homicide you're stuck on. He'll be down here in a flash."

-*-

Since it was after teatime, Lestrade waited until the next day to call Sherlock in. He told himself he wasn't putting off the conversation. It was just that he felt better able to face it after a good night's sleep. Not that his sleep was peaceful that night. He kept seeing little Johnny Blue-Eyes staring at him unblinkingly through the telly screen. Accusing him. Just before he woke up, the boy spoke in a high-pitched, reproachful voice. "Why didn't you rescue me, Gary?"

In the morning, he waited until 9 am to text Sherlock. He made sure the wording was vague enough that Sherlock would think it was about the McClinchy homicide, without actually saying that. Plausible deniability. He had no doubt Sherlock would be upset when he found out what this was really about. No, not upset. Sherlock didn't do upset. He just went straight to furious, doing an emotional 0 to 100 kmph in under two seconds.

It was only twenty-two minutes from when Lestrade sent the text to when Sherlock showed up at his office door. He knew it was twenty minute cab ride from Baker Street on a good day, so Sherlock must have headed out the door immediately. And he didn't even look like he had dressed in a hurry. Shirt perfectly pressed, perfect creases in his trousers—Mrs. Hudson must still be doing his laundry, Lestrade mused.

"Well?" Sherlock demanded with a scowl. "What is it?"

"What is what?"

"The new evidence! Let me see it. Although I don't know why you couldn't just text me a photo of it."

"I don't know how to do that."

"Of course you don't," Sherlock said with a huff. "Well?"

"Right. Let's go down the hall."

Sherlock's eyes narrowed, especially when Lestrade left the room without taking any of the file folders that littered his desk, but he followed without a word, for which Lestrade was grateful.

Lestrade stopped at Donovan's desk on the way and nodded to her, and she collected her notepad and file folder and joined them. Lestrade could feel Sherlock's eyes boring into his back as they headed down the hall to an interrogation room, but he made sure not to turn around. He didn't even intend to say anything: Donovan was going to handle it. Lestrade was just there as a mediator to make sure they didn't kill each other.

As soon as they were seated around the small table, Sherlock unbuttoned his coat and adjusted his sleeves with an air of affected unconcern. "So the McClinchy homicide was a ruse," he said archly. "What is this about?" He was looking at Donovan because she was the one with a file folder in her hand. Of course he had figured out this wasn't about the case they were working on. Lestrade knew he would, he just wasn't prepared for it to be this soon.

To her credit, Donovan said nothing. She pulled the screenshot of Johnny Blue-Eyes out of her file folder and silently put it down in front of Sherlock. It was a close-up of the boy's face, with a bit of yellow wall and corner of the yellow and green flowered sofa visible in the background. Sherlock didn't even look down at the photo, just glared at Donovan.

"Just look at the photo," Donovan said.

Sherlock glanced at it, then back up at Donovan with his eyebrows raised. "What do you want me to do?"

"You tell us." Donovan sat back in her chair and folded her arms while Sherlock took a closer look, first holding the photo up by the edges and studying it in the light, then setting it on the table and examining different areas with his magnifying glass.

"By the quality of the print, it's a photo taken from an old fashioned home videocassette. Printed here on the printer on your desk, Donovan."

Donovan started in surprise. "How did you. . .? Never mind." She scrunched back down in her chair again and he immediately continued.

"By the colors, it came from a home video made in the late 1970's or early 1980's. The video was shot in London or in the surrounding area."

"How do you know that?" Lestrade put in.

"That is a G Plan sofa, 1978 model. That particular model was sold only at JFS Furniture shops in London."

"So you recognize the sofa?" Donovan asked.

Sherlock turned a smirk on her. "Of course I do. My mother had one. I remember being dragged along on the shopping trip to purchase it."

"Who's that kid?"

"I don't know. How could I possibly deduce that?" Sherlock narrowed his eyes and looked back and forth between Lestrade and Donovan, obviously scanning for clues. "What's this about?" he said finally.

Donovan exchanged a glance with Lestrade, who gave her a minute shrug. She was the one who was so convinced that the kid was Sherlock, Lestrade thought. If she wanted to ask him about it, she was going to have to do it.

"We got some videos in the mail. Burglar found them at one of the places he burgled. He sent them to us." Donovan said.

"A burglar just. . . sent evidence of his crime to the police?"

Lestrade shrugged. "Yeah."

Sherlock turned the force of his deductive gaze on Lestrade. "And this boy is featured in the videos?"

"Yeah." Lestrade was feeling quite uncomfortable now. It was clear that Donovan was wrong, and Sherlock had no idea who the kid was or what this was about.

Finally Sherlock's chin went up and he took in a little breath. Lestrade recognized that sound. It was the sound of him putting the pieces together. "If this is a paedophilia case, I'm not interested," he said abruptly, pushing back his chair. "I'll leave it in your. . . capable hands. Now if you don't mind, I'm meeting John for coffee. If he doesn't get out of the house at least once a day, he's likely to become homicidal. Don't want to put little Alice in danger, do you?" Sherlock paused in the middle of buttoning his coat and looked into the distance with an expression of distaste on his face. "I hope he doesn't bring her in that little front pack again. It's so chav."

And with that he swept out, leaving the door to swing shut behind him. Lestrade stood up to go as well, glad that the conversation was over. They were obviously barking up the wrong tree. When he turned back to see if Donovan needed help packing up her paperwork, he saw that she was sitting back in her chair with her arms folded, a mulish look on her face.

"What?"

"He's lying."

"Oh, come on!" Lestrade exclaimed.

"Yes, he is! That's him!"

"You heard him; he didn't know what we were talking about."

"He was lying through his teeth."

"Didn't seem that way to me."

"It's a case! We're offering him a case, and he's not interested? Since when is he not interested?"

"He's already on a case." Lestrade pointed to the photo of Johnny Blue Eyes. "That's not him."

"Oh?" Donovan picked up the photo and waved it at Lestrade. "Ask him for a baby photo of himself."

"I doubt he's got one."

Donovan smirked. "Then ask his Mummy."

Lestrade shook his head firmly. "I'm not going to do that."


	3. Frontpacks and Cold Coffee

It took John three tube changes (loaded down with nappy bag, brolly, and baby) and a half-kilometer walk through crowded North London sidewalks in the drizzle, a total of over an hour travel, to reach the out-of-the-way coffee shop ( _The_ _Jumping_ _Bean_? Honestly?) that Sherlock had chosen, and somehow he still managed to beat Sherlock there by a wide margin. Typical.

After he got himself a cup of coffee, John settled Alice into a high chair and spread out bits of scone on the table in front of her, grimacing as she smacked her palms on the table and squealed. At least the coffee shop was fairly empty and the only person who seemed to notice was an older woman, who smiled at him indulgently when he gave her an apologetic look.

"Here we are, Alice. See?" John picked up a chunk of scone and held it out to her. Her hand wavered toward it like a drunk for a second, then she secured it in one chubby fist and jammed it into her mouth. Satisfied, John turned his attention to removing the front pack and folding it up onto the bench next to him. He was annoyed at Sherlock for choosing a coffee shop that was so far from his flat when there were loads of other closer ones. He wondered if the owner of this shop owed Sherlock a favor as well.

Ten minutes later, Alice had consumed half the scone and was tossing the rest of the bits onto the floor when Sherlock strode in, scowling, shaking the droplets of rainwater out of his hair. He chucked Alice under the chin, scowl quirking up a bit around the edges at her responding giggle, and then turned to John.

"Sit on the other side of the table."

John waggled his eyebrows at Sherlock but didn't move from his seat facing the window. "I was here first," he said mildly. Alice started making noises that John knew meant a meltdown was imminent, so he fished her toy monkey with the rubber teething paws out of the nappy bag and banged it lightly on the table to get her attention.

Sherlock' scowl deepened, but John just rested his elbows on the table and stayed put. Finally Sherlock huffed, wrapped his jacket more tightly around himself, and edged around the high chair into the seat across from John, with his back to the window. Alice dropped the monkey onto the floor. Sherlock reached down, picked it up, and returned it to her without looking, because his head was craned around trying to watch out the window.

"What's so interesting out there?" John asked, bemused.

Sherlock's response was an unintelligible grunt. John rolled his eyes and slid toward the end of his bench. "Fine. Trade me seats." Sherlock was up instantly and standing beside John's seat before he could even vacate it. Alice dropped her toy again, this time leaning over to watch it fall, and Sherlock bent down automatically and handed it to her again.

"You know she's doing that on purpose," John said as he slid into the seat against the window.

"Hmm? Doing what?" Sherlock was in the seat across already, eyes on the view behind John's head.

"That thing with the toy. It's a game, and you fall for it every time."

"Of course it's a game. I'm not 'falling for it', I'm teaching her about cause and effect."

"Huh." Well, that was interesting. Sherlock Holmes, child psychologist.

Sherlock looked down at the bench beside him and then gave John a pointed glare. "You've brought the frontpack."

"Yes. I had to change trains three times. Do you know how hard that is to do with a buggy?" John shook his head at the expression of distaste on Sherlock's face. "Why did you want to meet here anyway? There are plenty of other coffee shops much closer to my flat or yours."

"They have good coffee here." Sherlock was still looking out the window while he picked up the monkey and handed it to Alice again, who banged it on the table with a happy screech before tossing it onto the floor once more.

"So are you going to order some?"

"No."

John snorted. "Of course not." Alice had dropped the toy on the floor again and was now looking at Sherlock, who was too busy watching out the window to notice. She slapped her palm on the table and vocalized impatiently. That was new—she actually seemed to be waiting for him to respond. Cause and effect. John's lip tilted up, and his grin widened when Sherlock turned to the baby and exclaimed, "You've got it! Clever girl." He picked up the toy again and handed it to her, and was rewarded with a gummy smile. After two bangs on the table, the toy was on the floor again, and this time Sherlock was obviously waiting for her to vocalize before he picked it up.

"And now you're teaching her to shout for what she wants," John said wryly. "Ta for that."

Sherlock smirked at him and said, "That's not my problem," before returning his attention to the window. John turned his head trying to see what he was looking at, but saw only a quiet street. The buildings across the street had an air of abandonment, with several boarded up windows and tattered blinds pulled down over the doorways. A man in a dark blue jacket was walking down the street toward a boarded-up doorway tucked back under a striped awning.

The monkey hit the floor again, but this time Sherlock didn't pick it up because his eyes were glued to the window. "There he is!"

"There who is?" John asked, frowning. This had better not be what he was beginning to suspect it was. Alice screeched impatiently but Sherlock ignored her, so John reached around the high chair and retrieved the toy.

"Person of interest in the McClinchy homicide. Let's go!"

"What?! You wanted to meet me here so you could chase down a suspect?"

"Not a suspect; a person of interest. And not just me. We. Now come on, he's going to get away."

John shook his head. "I'm not going. Call Greg."

"Greg?" Sherlock looked completely lost. Good grief.

"LESTRADE! GREG LESTRADE!" John could see out of the corner of his eye that they had attracted the attention of the older lady in the corner, who was now glaring at them disapprovingly, so he dropped his voice to a hiss. "Good God, when are you going to learn his name?!"

"No time." Sherlock was out of his seat now now, one foot toward the door. "Come on!"

"No!" John growled angrily through clenched teeth. What was wrong with Sherlock today? "I'm not going to go chasing after a murder suspect with a baby strapped to my chest! Things are different now, remember? I can't just dash off into danger with you anymore. Unlike you, I have people who depend on me! It's been nearly nine months, Sherlock. One would think you'd have figured that out by now."

Sherlock blinked down at Alice like he had just realized she was there. "Why did you bring her along? You should have left her with Mary."

"Mary is at work!"

"Mrs. Hudson would have taken her. You need a little adventure, get the blood pumping through your veins."

"Last time you said that to me, I broke your nose. For the last time, no! Not today."

"Then why did you bother to meet me here?"

John shook his head in wonder at Sherlock's ability to be so brilliant and yet so clueless at the same time. "Because, and God only knows why, I am still your friend!"

"But what use are you to me?"

"Sherlock!" This was beyond the pale, even for Sherlock.

Sherlock flipped his hand dismissively. "Fine. Whatever. Go on back to your boring little flat in the suburbs."

Alice was making unhappy noises again, and when John glanced at her, he saw to his dismay that she had managed to spill the rest of his lukewarm coffee all over herself and was banging the empty cup on the table. He rolled his eyes and started mopping up the mess with a stack of napkins. "Off with you, then," he said with his back to Sherlock. "Have your little adventure. Maybe I can go with you next time."

He could hear Sherlock's annoyed grunt, then the door chimed and he was off. John didn't even turn around to watch where he went. Annoying git. Although this wasn't like him lately, to be so self-absorbed and clueless about others around him. Sherlock loved Alice with a fierceness that John wouldn't have thought possible a year before, and was usually incredibly protective of her. He wouldn't ordinarily forget she existed, or at least he hadn't lately. John chalked it up to Sherlock's excitement over finally having a case worth investigating.

"Well, Alice, love," he said with a grimace. "We've made a right mess of things, haven't we?"

-*-

Sherlock drew his bow across the strings of his Stradivarius impatiently. The instrument was out of tune, which normally he wouldn't have abided, but at this point he was so annoyed and out of sorts that it was almost satisfying for the music to sound so unpleasant.

His phone buzzed in his pocket again, so he played louder to drown it out. Infuriating Lestrade. He should have been focused on the McClinchy homicide, but instead he was letting himself get distracted by some stupid paedophilia case. That boy didn't even look that much like him. Perhaps the eyes, just enough that Sherlock had done a tiny double-take before he figured out what Donovan was up to. But it was ridiculous. He was sure he had never seen that sofa before. His mother's sofa had been a ghastly red and orange, not the no-less-eye-offending yellow and green affair from the photo. Honestly, what were people thinking in the seventies anyway, producing such ugly furniture?

Sherlock played a particularly enjoyable discordant note and forced himself to focus on the more important matter of the delightfully unfortunate demise of Lord and Lady McClinchy.

Fact: Lord Joseph McClinchy, age 32, had been a young up-and-comer with an inherited title and plenty of inherited money that he was rapidly depleting due to his lavish lifestyle. His generous "investments" had made him many friends and a few enemies as well. . .

The phone buzzed again with another text alert. Sherlock paused in his playing long enough to dig it out of his pocket and toss it onto the sofa without looking at it.

Fact: A photo existed, in the backwaters of the internet (since deleted, but not from Sherlock's mind palace), of Lady Millicent McClinchy in the company of one Edward Goldwater, ex-brother-in-law to known Moriarty henchman Sebastian Moran. True, this photo had been taken at a party over five years previous, but still it indicated a connection. . .

The phone buzzed again from the sofa. Sherlock ignored it.

Fact: Lady Millicent was known to be frustrated with her husband's spendthrift ways and had made moves to—

His thoughts were interrupted again, this time by Mrs. Hudson's tread on the stair. She was moving carefully, so she was carrying a tray and attempting not to spill the tea, as she had overfilled the teapot as usual.

"Yoo hoo!" She called from just outside the door. Sherlock ignored her and tried to pick up the tattered thread of his ruminations, only to have his concentration broken again when she thrust open the door anyway. "Sherlock, I've brought your tea."

"Yes, obviously. Now go away." He drew the bow across the strings again, resulting in a disharmonious racket.

"Ooh, Sherlock, that's awful." Mrs. Hudson deposited the tray on the coffee table and set about tidying up Sherlock's carefully distributed evidence photos. "It's half-seven in the morning. Perhaps you could play something a bit more soothing. Oh, my, these photos are disturbing."

"Late night? Perhaps a few too many herbal soothers?" He scraped the bow across the strings again for emphasis.

"Oh, no you don't. What on earth were you doing last night, young man? All that thumping about. . ."

What was she on about? Sherlock had spent a quiet night on the sofa with his fingertips tucked under his chin, staring at the ceiling and tracing the tangled web of Joseph McClinchy's business connections in his mind (true, he had woken up some time later on the floor, but that was neither here nor there). Ah, the business connections. . . Fact: Lord McClinchy was known to have been in league with notorious drug runner Owen Sprott, whom Sherlock had spotted yesterday entering a known drugs den, but had lost when John delayed his pursuit. . .

This chain of reasoning was interrupted by Mrs. Hudson prattling on again. "It sounded like you were rearranging furniture up here. And what was all the shouting about?"

Sherlock let off another string of dissonant chords. "I wasn't shouting." Now let's see. . . Sprott was an unsavory character—even Moriarty wouldn't jump into bed with him. . .

"Oh yes you were. I couldn't make out what you were saying, but you were definitely shouting. Up here all by yourself. . . unless you've got that brother of yours locked up in the bathroom?"

Frustrated, Sherlock tossed the violin onto the sofa harder than was strictly necessary and helped himself to a biscuit. "Haven't you got something else to do?" he asked around a mouthful of sweet. "Like perhaps the shopping?"

"I've already done the shopping, just yesterday. Although perhaps I should have bought more paracetamol." She rubbed her forehead, as if Sherlock might have missed her meaning from the snide comment alone.

"Oh? These biscuits are stale."

Mrs. Hudson drew herself up from where she had settled in John's chair. "No they're not!" she exclaimed indignantly.

"Yes, they are. You're feeding me stale biscuits." Sherlock took up the violin and bow again. "What good are you?"

"Sherlock Holmes!" Mrs. Hudson was on her feet now, which was exactly the reaction he had been looking for. "You are incredibly rude!"

"Excellent deduction, Mrs. Hudson," Sherlock responded evenly. He turned his back on her, set the bow to the strings again and started to play the dissonant first movement from Beethoven's third symphony, in triple time, to hurry her departure. It worked, of course. She huffed and hustled out the door, muttering something deprecating under her breath about his mother. But he had stopped listening.

Fact: Goldwater's suspected associates included the _infamous_ Albanian assassin Miroslav Popovic, who had also done some low-profile work for Moriarty, as well as some of Sprott's other rivals. If only Mycroft had let him stay in Albania a little longer, he might have been able to apprehend Popovic and break the Albanian connection wide open. But there was nothing he could do about that now, other than take petty revenge on Mycroft at every opportunity. So, if Goldwater (and, by extension, Moran) had seen a way to eliminate Sprott's funding by taking out Lord McClinchy. . .


	4. Samples on a Tuesday

Greg Lestrade was frustrated, to put it mildly. He had sent Sherlock no less than eleven texts in the past five days, asking him to come in, or suggesting they meet somewhere, with no response. He had called him, but had gotten no answer. He had even driven out to Baker Street and lurked outside for nearly an hour, waiting for Sherlock to come home, to no avail. It worried him that Sherlock was avoiding him: it made him wonder if perhaps Donovan was right. It wasn't like Sherlock to stay away when he was involved in a case.

He knew Donovan was getting impatient (when was she not, Lestrade wondered). On Monday morning, she came into Lestrade's office and sat her hip on his desk with her arms folded until he looked up from the crime scene photos he had been studying and raised his eyebrows at her.

"Did he get back to you yet?"

"No. Did you watch the rest of those videos yet?"

"Just finished number seventeen. Only skimming - can't watch the whole thing."

"Only fifteen more to go then. Off you pop."

Donovan groaned and pushed her hand through her hair. "I can't watch any more of them, Boss. It's the same thing over and over. I honestly haven't slept more than an hour a night for the past five nights. And to think this bastard is still out there. . ."

"We don't know that. He could have been arrested for something else. He could even be dead. The videos end at 1992, right?"

Donovan shook her head. "He's not dead. Our burglar found the videos at his flat, remember? He's still out there. Signing more little boys up for violin lessons."

Lestrade shuddered at that thought. Another innocent kid walking into that trap, thinking he's going to learn to play the violin, and instead getting an education of a different sort.

"We've got to get Sherlock in here and make him tell the truth."

"We don't have any evidence he  _wasn't_  telling the truth, Donovan. You don't know that's him. True, it sort of looks like him, but that doesn't mean anything."

"But the eyes! Heterochromia!"

"Yes, that affects one in 6,000 people. It's not conclusive."

"If he won't come in, maybe we can get a baby picture from somewhere else."

"I'm not calling his mum!"

"Doesn't he have a brother? Mike or something?"

"Mycroft," Lestrade corrected warily.

"Yeah, that's it. What's wrong with their parents anyway? Who names their kid  _Mycroft_?"

"The same people who name their other son Sherlock, apparently."

Donovan snorted. "Yeah, well, maybe Mycroft has a baby photo of Sherlock."

"Possibly."

"You could call him and ask," she said hopefully. At the doubtful expression on Lestrade's face, she continued, "Please? For me? Help me catch this bastard?"

"I'll think about it," he muttered.

"Thank you! That's all I ask." Donovan pushed off his desk and headed toward the door. "Now I'm off to watch video number eighteen. Should be riveting." And then she was out the door.

Lestrade dropped the photo of the McClinchy's blood-stained carpet down onto his desk and looked at his phone thoughtfully. As terrifying as it was to contemplate calling Mycroft Holmes, it might be worth it if it led to a break in this case. And he might finally be able to clear the cold case of Johnny Blue-Eyes at the same time. The possibility was too tempting to deny. He pushed the photos out of the way and picked up the phone.

* * *

Molly Hooper paused in her dictation of the autopsy report for Howard Belanger (poor old chap—suffering from advanced lung cancer but ended up choking to death on a chicken bone) and glanced at the clock. Already gone 15:00 and no sign yet of Sherlock. She really didn't want to call John on him, but if he didn't get in there before her shift ended today, she would have no choice. Anxiously chewing her lip, she picked up her phone and texted him.

**It's Tuesday.** It took almost ten minutes for him to respond, which she knew meant he had no intention of coming in.

_So?_

**Sample time.**

_I don't want to._

**If you don't, I'll call John.**

_This is tiresome._

**Just come in and give me a sample and you can be done with it.**

_Fine. This is blackmail._

* * *

Sherlock brought in the urine sample in a used pickle jar. At Molly's grimace, he said sulkily, "I cleaned it out first."

She carried the jar gingerly over to the lab station and gathered her supplies, whilst Sherlock stood at the end of the counter and played with his phone. After she had finished the tests, she stared at the results with a frown. That couldn't be right. So she ran the tests three more times just to be sure. Statins? That didn't make any sense. Unless. . .

With an exasperated huff, she grabbed a clean sample jar and strode down to Sherlock, who was leaning against the counter nonchalantly studying his fingernails now.

"Try again, mate."

He cocked a lazy eyebrow at her. "I beg your pardon?"

"Sherlock, you shouldn't buy samples from the geriatric population."

He snorted and looked away, but said nothing, so she held out the sealed container. "Give me another sample, your own this time."

When Sherlock continued to stare at the far wall with a scowl on his face, Molly prodded, "Come on, do I have to follow you into the toilets?"

"No," he grunted. He snatched the container out of her hand and stomped away toward the toilets. Molly watched him go, frowning. His pupils didn't look contracted, and he didn't appear to be high, but she knew he was a master at hiding it. He had fooled her before, more than once. In fact, for nearly the first year of their acquaintance, he had been high as a kite almost every day, and she had never suspected until Greg Lestrade (sergeant at the time, with hair more pepper than salt) had marched into the morgue one day and hauled him out by his ear.

By the time he came back with the new sample, still warm, she had cleaned up from the previous attempt and was ready to run the tests again. This time when she read the results her frown turned into an expression of concern. Eszopiclone, Trazodone, and Estazolam? Together? Any one of those sleep medications could be dangerous for a recovering drug addict, but all three at the same time could lead to some serious side effects. She wondered where he had even gotten them, as no ethical doctor would prescribe all three to the same patient. She was certain John would never have done.

Molly picked up her list of results and went over to Sherlock, who was leaning on the countertop with a scowl still fixed on his face. When she stepped up in front of him, he flinched noticeably. Molly sighed.

"I'm not going to hit you."

"You say that. . ."

She folded her arms across her stomach. "Better?"

He shrugged and stared over her shoulder again, refusing to meet her eye. She just watched him for a moment. His coat was looking a bit rumpled, she noticed now, and he had dark half-moons under his eyes. He shifted uncomfortably under her gaze.

" _What?!_ "

"What's wrong?"

"Nothing."

She raised her eyebrows at him and waved the paper with the test results.

"Oh, that. I needed to sleep. I'm working on a difficult case and I needed a break."

"Try some melatonin. I'm positive your doctor didn't prescribe you three sleep medications, especially since your doctor is John and he called me yesterday asking if I'd seen you lately."

Sherlock picked at his cuticle and didn't respond, so she continued. "You shouldn't mix these. It could lead to life-threatening side effects, not to mention dependence."

"It was only temporary. You don't understand."

"Help me understand."

"No."

Molly dropped the paper onto the counter and pulled her mobile out of the pocket of her lab coat.

"What are you doing?"

"Calling John."

"Why?" Sherlock demanded as she started to dial. "I'm clean. I'm not using."

"He'll want to know."

"It's not his business. He said to tell him only if I'm using, which I'm not!"

Molly pressed her lips together and looked down at her phone, her finger hovering over the "send" button. Finally she sighed. "Fine." She punched the home button instead and slipped the phone back into her pocket. "But you've got to promise me you won't—" as she was speaking, Sherlock scooted off the counter and headed toward the door—"mix these anymore."

"I promise. Scout's honor," he called back without turning around. And then he was out the door, leaving Molly standing with her hand in her pocket, wondering how he always managed to catch her wrong-footed.

* * *

At Donovan's urging, Lestrade spent the better part of three days sending Sherlock pointless text messages, although he grumbled under his breath that Donovan could bloody well do it herself.

"I could hear that, you know," she remarked from her spot by his door, where she had been lurking in hopes of a reply.

"Maybe I meant you to."

"He'd never respond to me, you know it."

"He hasn't responded to me either."

At that moment, Lestrade's mobile gave off an annoying foghorn sound, which made Donovan smirk and Lestrade grimace as if in pain. Sometime within the last month, Sherlock had changed the text alert on Lestrade's phone to that awful noise, and Lestrade hadn't been able to figure out how to change it back.

Lestrade reached for the phone, but Donovan was quicker. "I've found your murderer, if you still care," she read aloud, and then handed the phone to him. "There's a photo."

Lestrade glared at the screen, which held a photo of a heavy-set Caucasian man, mid-fifties, with a shaved head and crooked nose.

**Who is that?**  he texted back.

_Miroslav Popovic. Ukrainian hitman. Hired by the wife but ended up doing a side job for a different employer._

**Moriarty?**

_No. He's dead, remember? Edward Goldwater._

Now that was a name that hadn't even shown up on Lestrade's radar yet.  **Great, come on in and we'll talk about it.**

_I'm far too busy to come in. Doing your job, you know._  Lestrade heard a snort by his ear and looked up to discover that Donovan was reading over his shoulder. He gave her a helpless shrug. She rolled her eyes at him and plucked the phone from his hand. Holding it so he could see the screen, she typed,  **Sherlock, come in and talk to us. Please** _._

_You don't need me. Go on and arrest him. Do your job for once._

"I'm telling you, you're barking up the wrong tree. It's not him."

"Then why is he reluctant to come in? You know full well that if he had nothing to hide he'd be all over the chance to 'help' you catch this fellow."

"Ha! He's probably out chasing him down himself right now."

"Boss—" Whatever Donovan was about to say was interrupted by a sharp rap on the door. Lestrade could make out the silhouette of Constable Fadil through the glass.

"Come on in, Constable," he called loud enough for Fadil to hear him. The door opened partway and Fadil stuck his head in.

"Were you waiting for some fingerprint results, Sergeant?" He held out a piece of paper, which Donovan took.

"Oh, yeah. Thanks. Took 'em long enough. Oh, and Abdul, did you get anything on those school uniforms?"

"Thirty-seven primary schools in London currently use green blazers or jumpers with a gold insignia. If we're talking thirty years ago, it's going to take some legwork to figure out."

"Right. Keep on it."

"Yes, ma'am," he said and withdrew. Lestrade waited impatiently while Donovan silently scanned the paper in her hand.

"Well?" he finally prompted.

"No prints on the tapes. One print on the underside of the packing tape on the box."

"Who is it? Someone we know?"

"Oh, yeah, he's known to us. Andrew Gilbert. Remember him? You arrested him twice for housebreaking in 2011.

"Oh, right, I remember him. Did a stretch in Feltham, didn't he?"

Donovan consulted the document in her hand. "Six months in 2008. Hasn't been arrested since."

I haven't heard from him in a while. How old is he now?"

"Looks like. . .24."

"Didn't we use him as a C.I. on a few cases?

"Yeah, but that was almost six years ago. I haven't heard from him since. Have you?"

"Nope. Looks like he's up to his old tricks. Go pick him up. Maybe he'll have incentive to cooperate so he can stay out of adult prison. Take Fadil with you."

"Yes, sir." Donovan said on her way out. As soon as she was gone, Lestrade picked up his phone and scrolled up to the photo of the man Sherlock said was their murderer. The surveillance photo looked to have been taken at Heathrow, judging by the background. Date-stamp said it had been taken over three weeks ago, only two days before the McClinchys turned up dead. So where was he now?

* * *

On Wednesday evening, 221 Baker Street was locked up tight, so John scrunched down in the driver's seat of Mary's car and pulled his cap low over his face. As if that would keep Sherlock from recognizing him. He knew he hadn't a prayer of that. His only hope was to move quickly as soon as Sherlock came around the corner, and try to catch him before he could get away. He wasn't quite sure if Sherlock was avoiding him, but based on the number of unreturned texts and phone messages John had sent him, he was beginning to wonder if that was the case. Maybe Sherlock thought he was still upset about the thing with the coffee shop? No, more likely Sherlock was so absorbed in his case that he had forgotten that John even existed.

John's phone buzzed insistently in his pocket, two short buzzes and one long, so it was Mary calling. Probably wondering what was taking him so long and whether she and Alice should go ahead and eat supper without him.

"Hey, Mary, what's up?"

"Any sign of His Nibs?" Mary said in lieu of a greeting.

"Nope, none yet. No Mrs. Hudson either, so I'm sitting in the car."

"You know he'll recognize the car and probably tell the cabbie to keep driving."

"Yeah, well, it's raining. I don't really fancy sitting in the rain."

"Oh, come on. It's barely October. How cold can it be?

"This is London," he responded flatly.

"Point taken. How much longer are you planning to continue the stakeout?"

"Just go ahead and eat supper. I'm going to wait here a bit longer.

"John, I'm sure he's fine, really."

"Mrs. Hudson says he's been making so much noise in the night he's been waking her up."

"When does he not?"

"And he hasn't been answering my texts. Or anyone else's."

"That's just Sherlock being Sherlock."

"Don't do that."

"Do what?"

"Don't make excuses for him like he's a child."

"Well, he sort of is."

"No, he's a grown man. If I behaved like that, I'd expect someone to take me to task for it. Why should we do differently for him?"

Mary sighed. "All right. Let me know if you need any help. I can manage him."

"Oh, I know you can."

"See you later on?"

"Yeah, I shouldn't be late. Bye."

John leaned back in the seat with his phone in his hand. He was feeling increasingly annoyed that Sherlock hadn't been answering his texts or calls. Oh, he knew Sherlock wasn't lying in the flat dead or anything. Mrs. Hudson claimed to have seen and certainly heard him, and Molly said he had come in the day before for his weekly Tuesday drugs test, so he was definitely alive. This was just his usual forgetting that the rest of the world existed when he was immersed in a case, and John was getting bloody tired of it.

His phone buzzed in his hand, just once, and he looked down to see a text from Mary, with a picture of Alice standing at the coffee table, hanging on for dear life.  _She did it herself!_  the text read. John didn't have the heart to tell her that Alice had done that two days previous as well, while Mary was at work.

* * *

**Author's note** : Thanks for reading! The action will be picking up in the next couple of chapters.

 


	5. A picture of me when I was younger

Sherlock spotted Mary's car as soon as the cab turned the corner onto Baker Street. He couldn't tell immediately through the fogged windows who was sitting in the driver's seat, but he was sure it was John, come to harass him in person for not answering his phone. He leaned forward and told the cabbie that he had changed his mind and to keep driving and even hinted that there would be a big tip in it for him. As they passed Mary's car, Sherlock slouched in the seat and kept his head down, but he could see that he needn't have bothered, because John was looking down at his phone with a funny little smile on his face.

Sherlock was almost positive Molly had told him about the results of his latest drugs test, even though he had been quite convincing in his arguments otherwise. He didn't want to talk to John about his "drugs problem"—not that there was a problem, but he was sure that was what John would turn it into. It wasn't a drugs problem; it was a sleeping problem. He just needed to get some rest, that was all. It wasn't his fault that he kept waking up in the middle of the night in a different position to the one he went to sleep in (and even occasionally on the floor, granted). He put it down to stress. Stress that came from trying to protect the people he cared about. John. Mary. Alice. Molly. Graham—er, Grant Lestrade. He had never had this problem before, when he didn't care about anyone. So if anyone was at fault, it was that lot, not him. And it also wasn't his fault that one sleeping pill alone didn't work for him, so he had to mix them.

"Sir, where to?" asked the cabbie, loudly enough to make Sherlock realize that he had probably asked the question several times.

"Oh, erm. . . "Sherlock considered. He had planned to go home and go through security camera footage looking for Miroslav Popovic's distinctive prizefighter's nose, but John's presence had put paid to that idea. He needed a bolthole, preferably one with wi-fi and a kettle. And that meant Molly's flat. Cozy, comfortable, even with the presence of a psychotic cat. Molly's place would do nicely.

He gave the cabbie Molly's address and sat back to consider what password Molly was probably using on her laptop now. He hoped it wasn't still MollyHolmes, because that was more than a bit creepy.

* * *

Sally Donovan's attempted interview with burglar Andrew Gilbert went exactly nowhere. He kept claiming that he would tell her where he got the videos if only he could remember. The problem was, she actually believed him, because who would tell the police that they had broken into so many houses they couldn't remember them all, unless it were true? The guy was as cocky and annoying as she remembered, but also a bit pathetic and incredibly naive. She sent him off to lock-up with a sigh and a request to please let her know immediately if he remembered anything. At least she knew where to find him. And since their search of his flat had turned up a load of stolen goods and several poorly secured mayonnaise jars full of homemade black powder, it looked like he would be staying put in lock-up for a while.

After the interview she sat at her desk wondering where the hell Constable Fadil had gone and if she could convince him to write up the arrest report. She put her feet up on her desk and flipped through the stack of screenshots and notes for at least the dozenth time. Picture one: aged about eight, with neatly combed sandy hair and pointy nose dotted with freckles. Picture two: a gangly blond boy about ten, with an overbite. Picture three: straight dark hair and brown eyes. Picture four: a slim, sad-eyed boy of about seven, with short ginger hair that stuck up from a cowlick in front. Picture five: Johnny Blue-eyes (obviously Sherlock, despite his protestations), with wild dark curls and cupid's-bow lips. Picture six: crewcut and glasses . . . Thirty-two little boys with a secret hidden behind locked doors, and now she was holding the key. The key that would expose them to the world. It was a big responsibility, the weight of which felt like it was about to crush her. And her biggest concern right now was making sure she didn't expose these victims before she had her perp in the dock.

After Donovan had finished skimming the videos, she had spent hours going through old booking photos, looking for a jawline and mouth that matched her mystery perp, with no luck. As far as she could tell, this man had never been arrested for anything. No fingerprints, no DNA, no ID, no address, so how were they going to identify him?

The sharp ringing of the phone on her desk startled Donovan, and she sat up and snatched the handset off the hook.

"D.S. Donovan."

"Sergeant Donovan, how are you this evening?" Woman's voice, youngish, middle-class accent, overly sincere tone. The question instantly put Donovan on edge. Only one type of person greeted you like that, and there was no one in that class of people that she wanted to talk to.

"Fine. Who's this?"

"My name is Kitty Riley, and I'm a reporter for the Daily Mail—"

"I know exactly who you are, Ms. Riley, and you no longer work for the Mail. In fact, you've been unemployed for nearly the past three years."

"I'm doing a freelance job for the Mail. I'm hoping you might be able to confirm some details for me."

"I'm not giving you any information about an open investigation."

"Oh, I'm not asking for information, Sergeant. I'm just giving you a chance to clarify some details before I run my story."

"What story?"

"I heard you received some videotapes—"

Dammit! How did she get that information?! Donovan forced herself to reply calmly. "Who told you that?"

"Unfortunately I can't reveal my source. . ."

"Bullshit."

"Is that your comment, then, Sergeant? Is that one word or two?"

Shit! Donovan tried again. "Ms. Riley, do not run this story yet. The victims deserve privacy."

"Victims? Plural? So is that confirmation? What was the average age of the boys?"

"I'm not confirming anything. Do not run this story."

"Luckily for me the police don't control the press, Sergeant Donovan. I'll just put you down as 'no comment', then, shall I?"

Donovan bit back the angry words that sprang to her lips, words that would only make it worse, and hung up the phone. Where could Riley have gotten her information? The only ones who knew about this case were herself, Lestrade, that bloke from Counter-Terrorism (and he only knew there were videotapes, not what was on them), and. . . DAMMIT! She was going to  _kill_  that little weasel.

* * *

Molly stumbled in the door of her flat, bleary-eyed and laden down with shopping, at half-seven at night, and gave a small shriek when she discovered Sherlock Holmes on her sofa, wearing her snuggie backwards like a dressing gown, with her laptop on his lap.

"What are you doing here?" she asked once she had recovered her breath.

Sherlock didn't look up from the laptop screen. "You said I could use your place," he grumbled.

"That was while you were playing dead." She shoved Toby out of the way with her toe and kicked the door shut. "Why don't you go home?" she asked on the way to the kitchen. She tried to get a glimpse of what he was doing on her laptop, but the screen was at the wrong angle.

"I'd rather stay here."

"Why? Who are you hiding from? What have you done?"

"Whom."

"What?" she called from the kitchen. Setting the bags on the counter, she started rummaging through them for the ingredients for dinner.

"It's 'whom', not 'who'. ' _From whom_  are you hiding?' And the answers are no one and nothing. Just didn't feel like going home. Did you tell John about the test results?"

"What test results?"

She could hear his exasperated huff from the sitting room. "From yesterday. You promised you wouldn't call him."

"I didn't—well, not exactly. I may have texted him that I was a bit worried about you. . ."

"There's no need to worry."

Molly pulled out the wok and started it heating up for the chicken. "You say that, but I don't think it's true."

"You worry too much. You all worry too much."

"Yes, well, it's our cross to bear, I suppose." Sesame oil and garlic went into the wok, followed by cut-up chicken.

"What is that supposed to mean?" came Sherlock's voice from directly behind her, startling her.

"Good heavens. Never mind. Stop scaring me like that."

"That smells good." Sherlock sat at the table with the blanket pulled tightly around him, tapping away at her laptop. It was clear he expected her to feed him dinner. Of course, she would do it. She didn't even mind making dinner for him. It was just the fact that he expected she would, without him even asking her, that made her feel so. . . taken advantage of. It was annoying. But she didn't say anything. She just kept adding ingredients to the stir-fry with her back to him.

"Your password is SherlocksLips."

Molly tried, and half-way succeeded, to suppress a giggle. She was glad her back was to him so he couldn't see the grin that was spreading across her face.

"What?" he demanded at the little choking sound she had made.

"Did it ever occur to you that I'm doing that on purpose?"

"Whatever for?"

"To make you uncomfortable."

"Why would you want me to be uncomfortable?"

"You're hacking into my laptop! You SHOULD be uncomfortable!

He gave an annoyed hrumph, but when she turned her head partway to glance at him, she saw a little half-grin on his face that matched her own.

* * *

After dinner, Sherlock disappeared into Molly's bedroom with her laptop, leaving his plate, fork, and cup on the table. She stared at the dishes for a moment before deciding to leave them where they were. He made the mess; why shouldn't he clean it up?

After she washed up her dishes and put the leftovers away, she went to her bedroom door and knocked on the closed door. No answer. Could he be asleep?

"Sherlock?"

"What?"

"Are you staying the night?"

"Yes."

"Oh. Ok. I need. . ."

"WHAT?"

She had been about to say "my pyjamas," but changed her mind at his tone. She could sleep in the extra pyjama bottoms she kept in the spare bedroom for him (and that she had told Tom belonged to her brother when he had found them and asked).

"Never mind. Sleep tight."

There was no response to that, so she went back to the sitting room and curled up on the sofa with her book. Halfway through the first chapter, a buzzing sound interrupted her reading. It was Sherlock's phone, which was laying face-down on the coffee table. She picked it up and turned it over.

**Text Alert: Lestrade  
** _Sherlock, you're not in trouble. Please come in and we'll just. . ._

Her sense of guilt overwhelmed her at that point and she quickly set the phone face down on the coffee table. A minute later it buzzed again and she impulsively picked it up.

**Text Alert: John  
** _Could you phone me please? We need to. . ._

She dropped the phone like it was hot. It really was a bit not good to read someone else's text messages.

* * *

D.I. Lestrade was on his way out the door when a courier arrived at NSY looking for him. He heard the man asking at the desk for "Gregory Lestrade", and considered slipping out the back way unseen. Whatever it was, it could wait until tomorrow. He was exhausted and starving, and apparently he had some CCTV photos related to his homicide case to go through at home, because Sherlock had been emailing them to him at the rate of at least one per minute for the past hour.

Before he could put legs to his plan, the receptionist pointed his way, and the courier looked up and spotted him. Then they were both standing waiting for him to come over, and it wouldn't look right for him to just take off running, now would it?

He took the package, a stiff A-4 sized envelope, and signed the man's iPad awkwardly with his finger. Whatever happened to good old-fashioned pen and paper?

The envelope had his name written on the front in neat handwriting, and "From the desk of Mycroft Holmes" printed in the upper left corner. Why would Mycroft Holmes. . . ? Ah, yes, the photo that Donovan asked him to request on Monday. He pulled out his phone and texted her.  **Got something for you from Holmes the Elder.**

Lestrade was about to just drop the envelope onto Donovan's desk and head out, when she came around the corner with Constable Fadil right behind. She looked flustered and out of sorts, and Fadil had an embarrassed expression on his face. What was that about?

As they approached her desk, Donovan said to Fadil, "We'll talk about this later."

"But Sergeant—"

"Later. Dismissed."

"Yes, Ma'am." He peeled off and headed for his desk without looking back, and Donovan turned to Lestrade.

"Photo came?" she asked quietly, with narrowed eyes still following Fadil's retreating form.

Lestrade held up the envelope. "Of course he had it delivered just when I was walking out the door."

"Yeah, I'm sure he did it just to inconvenience you. Let's see." Donovan took the envelope, scooped up a stack of file folders off her desk, and led the way toward Lestrade's office.

"Do I have to go back into my office? I just left there."

"The walls have ears."

While Lestrade closed the door, Donovan dropped her file folders onto his desk and slit open the flap of the envelope with her finger. She pulled out a piece of paper first, looked at it, and handed it to Lestrade. It was an expensive piece of stationery, with the initials MJH across the top, and the words "As requested. MH" written in smooth fountain pen on it.

When he looked up, he saw that Donovan had pulled out the photo and was staring at it with a perplexed expression on her face. "What? Not him?" he asked.

"It's not that. . ." She turned the photo around so he could see it. The photo was of two boys against a blue background: one clearly Sherlock, about age three, with a head full of wild black curls. He was half-off the end of a bench, red-faced, mouth open, struggling to get away from the older boy, apparently Mycroft, who was holding him by the shoulders trying to keep him in his seat. Mycroft's hair was perfectly coiffed, his suit had obviously been pressed but was now rumpled from his fight to keep his little brother in check, and he had a tight smile painted on his face. Lestrade smirked at the sight. It was just so. . . them. It was like their bodies had gotten bigger but they had never actually grown up.

"That's Johnny Blue-Eyes, you know it is," Donovan said.

Lestrade had to admit that she was right. The hair, the eyes, the lips—Even after ten years he still had that image burned into his mind. He nodded reluctantly and was about to confirm it out loud when Donovan pointed to the other boy in the photo.

"Who's this kid?"

Lestrade's eyebrows went up in surprise. "That's Mycroft, I suppose. Looks like him."

"That's the kid in the first video."

"What?!"

"Yeah. Look here." She opened her top file folder, took out a screenshot and held it up next to the photo of Sherlock and Mycroft. "See? Look at that nose. That's him, Boss."

It was obvious. Not just the nose—it was the freckles, the sandy-brown hair, the shape of the eyes. The boy in the screenshot was clearly Mycroft Holmes. Lestrade let out a noisy breath and scrubbed at his bristly chin.

"Now what do we do?" he said, shaking his head. "Call Mycroft Holmes in here and ask him to show us where on the doll the bad man touched him?"

* * *

**Author's note:**  What do you think? I'd love to hear your thoughts. Drop me a comment by clicking below!


	6. Some days you get the bear

When Molly woke in the middle of the night, she rolled over and looked for her bedside clock. Not there. Where the hell. . .? Oh, right. Sherlock Holmes had locked himself in her bedroom, so she was in the spare room with the uncomfortable futon and no clock. She rolled her neck to work out the kinks while she fumbled for her phone on the nightstand. It was after one a.m. Something had awakened her, but now she wasn't sure what. Lying back down on the bed, she held very still and listened. Her flat was doing its usual nightly serenade of squeaks and bumps. It had kept her up nights when she first moved in, jumping at every sound, but now she had learned to ignore it and usually slept right through.

Wait, what was that sound? A thump, and then a shout. Was that a neighbor? No, it was coming from the direction of her bedroom. What on earth was Sherlock doing in there? She listened some more, and soon heard another garbled shout. This one sounded like "Daddy!" She must be imagining things.

Curious, Molly got out of bed and crept quietly down the hall toward the source of the noises. On her way past the sitting room, she saw Sherlock's phone was still on the coffee table, so she picked it up to return to him. A glance at the screen showed several more text message alerts from John and D.I. Lestrade, and even one from Sally Donovan (at least, that's who she assumed the name "Sergeant Yobbo" referred to).

When she got closer to her bedroom, she heard another shout, and then what almost sounded like Sherlock moaning in pain. Was he hurt? Or maybe having a nightmare? She hesitated outside the door for a minute, listening to the muffled cries. After another loud thumping sound, she tried the doorknob. Still locked.

"Sherlock?" There was no answer, so she knocked on the door. "Sherlock?!"

He cried out again, something that sounded like "No, don't!"

"Sherlock! Wake up!"

She heard a series of thumps, a grunt, and a muttered curse, then silence. After a long moment, she said more quietly, "Sherlock? Are you all right?"

There was a short delay before he answered. "I'm fine. Go away."

"What's going on?"

"You tell me; you're the one who woke me up in the middle of the night."

"You were having a nightmare."

"No I wasn't," he responded crossly.

"Yes, you were. Open the door."

"No."

"You left your phone out here."

"I know. The buzzing was annoying."

"Lestrade texted you."

Silence greeted this bit of information. "Sherlock?"

"You shouldn't read other people's texts."

"I didn't do it on purpose. You left the phone on the coffee table."

"It was face down."

"Sherlock, he says you're not in trouble. You should talk to him."

"I know I'm not in _trouble_. I just don't want to talk to him. Now go away."

Molly stood still in front of the door, considering. Maybe she had imagined it and he was fine. Anyway, whatever he was dreaming about, it was over now. Best just to go back to. . . HEY!

While she had been trying to decide what to do, the door had cracked open, Sherlock's hand had snaked out and snatched the phone from her grasp. Then he closed and locked the door again before she even had time to react. Shit.

* * *

In the morning, Molly woke with her hair half out of her ponytail and a massive crick in her neck. She quickly fixed the former as best she could using her fingers for a comb, but the latter would require a hot bath to work out, which was out of the question as long as Sherlock Holmes and his lockpicks were in her flat.

The flat was very quiet, so Sherlock must still be asleep. He wasn't much of an early riser. In fact, judging by the nights he had crashed at her place while he was dead, early mornings appeared to be the only time he wasn't a whirlwind of noise and energy, which was fine by Molly. She liked quiet mornings.

She pulled on a hoodie over her vest and headed toward the kitchen, humming to herself. As she passed the sofa, she was startled by Sherlock's voice. "Stop that bloody noise."

She looked over the back of the sofa and discovered Sherlock curled up with her laptop, dressed in a pair of Tom's striped pyjamas that he had found God only knows where, the snuggie wrapped securely around himself. "Good grief, Sherlock. You surprised me."

"Why? Didn't you remember I stayed here last night?"

"Yes, of course I did. I just didn't—never mind," she interrupted herself. "I'm going to make coffee. Do you want some?"

The only response was a grunt, which she took as a yes, so she headed on to the kitchen and started the coffee maker, then pulled out pans to make scrambled eggs. A few minutes later she turned around and found him sitting at the table in the exact same position he had been in the previous night. Good grief, she needed to get him a bell or something, because he was far too stealthy for her sanity.

Molly poured him a cup of coffee, added far too much sugar (which was apparently exactly how he like it—yuck) and was about to set it down in front of him when she noticed something—he had a black eye.

"What happened to your eye?"

He took the coffee from her hand and said mildly, "You gave it to me."

"What?! I most certainly did not!"

He smirked. "Yes, I got it from falling out of bed when you woke me up last night."

"You were having a nightmare."

"No, I wasn't." Then he took a drink of his coffee, set it down on the table, and went back to whatever he was doing on her laptop. She hoped it wasn't porn. What sort of porn would Sherlock Holmes like, anyway? Probably necrophilia. Shudder.

She fried up some eggs with bacon and potatoes, and ate hers in silence while he picked at his with his eyes glued to the screen. Back before he was dead, when she had pictured having Sherlock stay over in her flat, this was not exactly what she had had in mind. Now, however, she was used to it. Sherlock could be an excellent conversationalist when he wanted to, but it had to be on his terms. She had learned that if she interrupted him when he was in a funk, or when he was thinking, she did so at her own peril.

When she was done eating, Molly cleared her dishes and then stood with her arms folded, scowling at Sherlock, who had eaten only a few bites. He had pushed his plate aside, next to his dishes from the previous night, and was staring at the laptop while ignoring her completely.

"Sherlock," she said finally. "Are you staying another night?"

"I don't know," he said without looking up.

"Well, when do you think you might know?"

"What does it matter?"

"I just want to know if I should change the sheets or not."

"Change them if you want, I don't care. Why would I care?"

Molly sighed. This was the way every conversation with him went, but she was mostly angry with herself for putting up with it. She knew she needed to stand up to him, but something about him turned her into a spineless wreck every time, which he took full advantage of.

When Sherlock still didn't look up from the screen, Molly shook her head and headed into her bedroom. She hoped he didn't plan on staying here the whole day. She had planned to spend her day off tidying up and doing some projects, which was difficult to do when Sherlock was underfoot.

First she stripped the sheets off the bed. She considered leaving them, because they smelled like him, but decided that was a bit not good. Besides, mixed in with the light scent of his deodorant and soap was a sour hint of sweat and cigarette smoke. He wasn't smoking in her bedroom, was he?

As she was bundling the sheets and getting ready to take them to the wash, she noticed something odd: her antique Merrythought teddy bear was missing from her bedside table. Now where could it have gone? She had gotten it only a few weeks ago, the only item from her grandmother's estate that had come to her, and it was meant to be sitting on the nightstand.

Frowning, Molly tossed the sheets into the corner and started looking around the room. There were not many places in her small bedroom the bear could have gone. Not in the closet. Not in any of the drawers in her dresser or nightstand. Not behind any of the pieces of furniture.

She got down on her knees and looked under the bed. There it was, half under the mattress with its back to her. Sherlock must have put it there, but why would he do that? Did he think it was too juvenile for her? Well, it was her bedroom, and she could do with it whatever she liked, Sherlock Holmes be damned.

She dragged the bear out from under the bed and started brushing off the dust and straightening out the little beefeater uniform. When she turned it around, she discovered a gaping hole where the right eye should have been.

Molly gasped in horror. Sherlock had pulled the bear's eye out? Why on earth would he have done that?! Her horror quickly turned to fury. How dare he! He didn't get to destroy her things! She stomped off to the kitchen to confront him.

When Molly entered the kitchen with the damaged bear clutched in her fist, Sherlock abruptly stood up, almost knocking the chair over, and took a step back, eyes wide.

"Why did you vandalize my bear?" Molly choked out, nearly in tears, holding the bear out and shaking it slightly.

He backed up further until his back hit the cupboards; one hand gripped the edge of the counter, the other was held out in front of him as if pushing her back.

"Sherlock, why did you do that?"

He swallowed hard and said in a shaky voice, "It wath thtaring at me."

"What?!"

He didn't respond, just stared at the bear with wide, panicked eyes. His breathing was fast and loud in the small room.

And then, just as suddenly his breathing slowed and his hand dropped. He blinked a couple of times, then said in his normal voice, "What? I didn't do anything to your bear."

"What? I don't—what-?" She held out the bear again, and this time he let out a strangled shout.

"THTOP! I don't want to! It hurth!" He was practically climbing up on top of the counter to get away from her. Molly looked back and forth between the bear and Sherlock in confusion.

"Sherlock, what are you talking about?!" She narrowed her eyes at him. Could he be on something? Was he taking drugs at her flat?! And if not, what on earth was making him act so oddly? He seemed to be afraid of her teddy bear.

"I'll tell my daddy!"

"Tell him what?" she said in a reasonable tone, but her mind was racing. This sounded like some sort of—post-traumatic flashback. She remembered her brother Eric having them after Afghanistan. They would just be walking down the street and suddenly Eric would be crouching behind rubbish bins screaming for everyone to get down. But what could Sherlock have flashbacks about? Something that happened while he was dead? She knew he had been hurt, although he had never talked about it. Why would it be triggered by a teddy bear?

"You're a vampire! You don't love me!"

"Sherlock, you aren't making any sense." She took a step toward him, hand out placatingly, and he suddenly bolted, shoved his way past her and ran, barefoot and still in his pyjamas, out the door, leaving her staring after him in bewilderment.

After a moment of standing in shock, she dropped the bear, grabbed her phone, and ran out after him. "Sherlock!" But he was too fast. By the time she got to the bottom of the stairs, he was already down the street and rounding the corner of the building out of sight. SHIT!

With shaking fingers, Molly dialed John's number and waited while it rang. Two times. Three. How early was it anyway?

John finally picked up on the fourth ring, his voice thick with sleep. "Molly? What's up?"

"Oh, John! Sherlock stayed with me last night—well, at my flat—and this morning he—I don't even know how to explain it—he had some sort of mental breakdown, like a flashback or something—and I don't know where he went, he just—he saw my teddy bear-"

"Hang on, Molly. Slow down. Do you think he's on something?"

"No, no I don't think so. He got agitated and started babbling about vampires and ran out."

"Vampires?"

"Yes, and he's barefoot and doesn't even have his phone or wallet or anything. I don't think he could get far."

"Ok, Molly, I'm on my way. Stay put in case he comes back."

Molly quickly replaced her pyjamas with a pair of tracksuit bottoms and then sat on her steps tapping her phone anxiously against her knee and watching down the street in the direction Sherlock had gone, hoping against hope that he would come back the same way unharmed.

* * *

**A/N:**  Hey-o, won't you please write me a quick comment? They make my day, really! (I mean it. It's probably unhealthy how excited I get over comments. . .)

 


	7. . . . Some days the bear gets you

Sherlock woke up in a hospital bed. Not the first time that had happened, but this time he appeared, upon immediate inspection, to be uninjured. He lay very still and attempted to take stock. His mind felt thick and sluggish, like swimming through pea soup. They had obviously given him some sort of drug, and not one of the nice ones either, more the pity. He forced himself to run through a mental checklist.

Torso—ok, no pain. Head—no pain, but some memories were obviously missing, like how he had gotten to hospital. Dull ache in. . . right eye, but he remembered where he had gotten that, and it definitely wasn't enough to land him in hospital. Legs—no pain. Feet—hmm. . . slightly uncomfortable. He lifted his head (even though the movement set everything to spinning) and looked down at his feet, which were covered by a light blue blanket. Wiggled his toes, and rubbed one foot with the other. Bandaged, definitely, but he didn't know why. Arms—fine, no pain. Sort of felt like they were floating, but that must be from the drugs. It was sort of nice. Just float away. . . No, must focus! He attempted to pull his arm up to make a visual inspection, but discovered quickly that he was restrained to the bed by a pair of padded leather cuffs attached to the bar with a rattly chain. Again, nothing that hadn't happened before, but this time he had no recollection of the reason behind it. Nothing was broken or obviously damaged, so why was he in hospital? He attempted to corral his scattered thoughts. Last he remembered he had been at Molly's. Breakfast. Checking security video on the laptop. A bear . . OH.

Suddenly his head was full of images, fleeting pictures that he now realized were memories.  _A bear. He was staring at a bear, with a red and black beefeater uniform and tall black hat. A bear sitting on top of a telly, watching him with a big unblinking eye. A violin. Big hands over his small ones. Hands under his shirt. A man's hands, cool and clammy, touching him, hurting him. When he tried to see the face, his stomach twisted and his mouth filled with the sour taste of acid._

Trembling, he squeezed his eyes shut, as if he could block out the pictures that way, but it only made them stronger, the colors turning bright and garish. Sherlock's breathing sped up as the images flashed across the inside of his eyelids.  _Yellow and green flowers. A loose yellow thread. His hands, knuckles white, clutching at the fabric. A man's voice in his ear, whispering words that he couldn't recall. Spots of red in his pants._

Sherlock shook his head hard and the room spun around him. He realized sluggishly that these images had been haunting the edges of his nightmares for the past week, ever since Donovan had slapped that photo down in front of him. He had dismissed them, forgotten them by the time he had awakened, but he now realized that they were memories, not just nightmares, and they had been there all along, in a dusty backroom of his mind palace; not gone, just locked away. Well, now they were out, and there was no locking them away again. The best he could do was damage control.

Sherlock forced himself to take a deep breath and let it out slowly whilst counting back from five, then repeated the process. Calm. Control. By the third deep breath, he felt the shaking decrease. By the fifth deep breath, his hands were steady and he felt strong enough to open his eyes. Thinking about things logically, there was no reason for anything to change. Whatever had happened in that room with the yellow and green sofa, it was a long time ago. It was over and done. True, he hadn't remembered it until now, but the events had happened and they hadn't affected him then, so why should they affect him now? Simple answer: they  _shouldn't_  affect him. He wasn't a child any longer; he didn't have to give in to an emotional response. He could analyze the situation as an adult, categorize it, and file it away properly. Yes, good. He would do that later. It would be easier to think when he wasn't lying in a hospital bed. Time to go.

He tried to sit up, but was brought up short by the restraints. Oh, right, he was chained to the bed like an animal. He looked around the room for something to help, but it was almost completely empty. No telly. No remote, not even a call button. The only piece of equipment was an IV pole with a display monitoring his heartrate and respiration. Another bed on the opposite end of the room was surprisingly empty. One wall held a whiteboard with these words written on it:

Holmes, William S  
DOB 12/7/1976  
NKA  
Dr: Vashti  
Nurse: Teresa

A striped curtain blocked his view of the doorway, but he could hear sounds outside: soft voices talking, machines beeping, and then the squeak of crepe-soled shoes. So he took a chance.

"Teresa!" He called hoarsely. No response. He cleared his throat and tried again. "Teresa!"

The crepe-soled shoes squeaked to a stop on the lino, then turned and started coming back toward his room. Excellent. Now to attempt to appear perfectly sane and lucid. That would be difficult when it felt like the room was in the midst of a hurricane, but he could manage.

A middle-aged woman stuck her head around the curtain. Stout around the middle, faded ginger hair pulled up into a bun, glasses with vivid green frames. "Ah, you're awake," she said with a bright smile that matched the bright colors of her scrubs.

"Yes, apparently," Sherlock responded in an agreeable tone. No need to comment on the fact that she was pointing out the bleeding obvious.

"How are you feeling now? Better?"

"Fine. Much better." Probably a bit not good to say that he had no idea if he were "better," because he didn't remember the events that had led to him ending up strapped to a hospital bed.

Still smiling, the nurse stepped up next to the bed and folded the blanket down to expose one arm. One of her hands was deeply bruised. Her hands had freckles, short plump fingers. . . oh.

Sherlock suddenly had a flash of memory.  _Clutching that freckled hand hard enough to leave red marks. Couldn't catch his breath._ While he stared at the hand, more images flooded in.  _He was running. Wet. Cold. Bloody footprints on the pavement. Someone was chasing him; he couldn't see the face, just the hands, cold and very white, reaching out for him, trying to catch him. The man wanted to bite him, to swallow him whole. Then that warm freckled hand holding his like a lifeline, with him pressing his face against the brightly colored fabric of her shirt._

"Mr. Holmes? William?"

Sherlock blinked, swallowed hard, and pushed the images away. He forced his breathing to slow again. In. . . out. . . in. . . out, slowly and evenly.

"If you're wondering, yes, you bruised up my hand a bit."

"Oh. Sorry."

"No need to apologize. I don't think you exactly knew what you were doing. You called me 'Mummy' and told me vampires were chasing you."

"Er. . . Right, well, I'm feeling much better now. Back to normal. So I'm ready to go. To be released, rather. All fine here." With a hopeful expression on his face, he held up one hand as far as he was able, chain jangling against the metal bedrail.

"Sorry, dear, have to wait for the doctor. I can page her in a moment and let her know you're awake."

"I need the loo."

"I can bring you a bedpan."

"I can wait."

"If you wish." The nurse gave him a half smile and wrapped a blood pressure cuff around his upper arm.

"That's a lovely top you're wearing."

"Thank you, dear," she said without looking up from the dial.

"I don't know why I would call you Mummy. You're much too young to be my mother."

Her half-smile was back, but she just said "shh. . ." and carried on taking his blood pressure, ignoring Sherlock's resultant scowl.

"Please, just help me out here. I promise I won't cause any more trouble."

"Sorry, love. Doctor should be along shortly." She took a digital thermometer from her pocket and slid it across his forehead and down behind his left ear.

She had just finished taking his vitals and was writing something on his chart when he heard an unmistakable sound in the hallway: leather-soled shoes with a little scuffing sound at the end of the stride from a toe turned outward, followed by the sharp tap of the metal end of a brolly.  _Mycroft_. Sherlock's lip curled up into a snarl. A second later, the man himself came around the curtain, but before Sherlock could even tell him to go do unspeakable, not to mention impossible, things to himself, Mycroft's eyebrows went up, then he turned on his heel and strode out again.

The nurse turned an amused grin on him. "Friend of yours?"

"Not exactly," Sherlock growled.

The nurse finished writing on his chart and turned to go, almost running smack into a flustered-looking woman in a lab coat, who scurried in followed at a leisurely pace by Mycroft.

"We're waiting on a psych consult, Mr Holmes. We cannot release him until we've determined if he's still a danger to himself or others."

"I am capable of making that determination, Dr Vashti. You may release him into my care."

Like hell they would! Sherlock opened his mouth to disagree, but the doctor's next statement stopped him.

"We are looking into an emergency admission to West London Hospital. . ." Oh, no, not that. Anything was better than that, even being released due to Mycroft's influence. Once he was out he could easily give him the slip. Even now he could feel the fuzziness from the drugs decreasing. His mind was working again. Not perfectly, but at least the spinning had slowed down.

"That will not be necessary," Mycroft replied smoothly, just as the doctor's phone beeped. "If you check your phone, I believe you will find that the orders to release my brother have been issued by your superior."

The doctor gaped at him. "What?"

"Check your phone, doctor."

She frowned and pulled the phone from her pocket, raised her eyebrows at it, then put it away and muttered, "Very well." Her face had turned scarlet and her lips were pressed together in a straight line while she unbuckled the cuffs from Sherlock's wrists.

"Remove the IV," she ordered the nurse, who raised her eyebrows but complied without argument. Sherlock forced himself to look at her freckled hands calmly while she removed the IV and bandaged his arm. Suddenly it was taking every ounce of his tattered control to keep the images at bay. The same pictures kept leaping up to the front of his consciousness over and over, but he took care to show no external sign, nothing that would cause Mycroft to change his mind.

When she was done, Mycroft said, in a tone that brooked no argument, "Thank you doctor, nurse. You may go."

The doctor's mouth opened as if she were about to speak, but then snapped shut again. Then she hurried out, grabbing the nurse, who was watching with an amused expression, by the sleeve and dragging her along. As soon as they were out the door, Sherlock sat up and pulled the blanket the rest of the way off. He was dressed only in the thin hospital gown, barefoot except for the bandages. Not exactly his usual attire. He swung his legs over the side of the bed and sat for a moment, swallowing hard to hold down the nausea brought about by that small movement.

"A simple 'Thank you' wouldn't be amiss, little brother."

Sherlock looked up to find Mycroft flipping through his chart. He yanked it out of his meddlesome hands and tossed it down on the bed. "Have you brought me any clothes?"

"Hmm. . . no."

"Well, I can't go in this. I look like a mental patient."

"You have gone out in less," Mycroft reminded him with a note of amusement in his voice. Sherlock ignored him and started looking around the room. He quickly spotted a plastic bag in the corner that said "Patient belongings" in block letters on the side. Ah, well, pyjamas were better than nothing.

"Fine." Sherlock pulled up his gown and ripped the ECG leads from his chest, wincing when a few stray hairs went with them.

Now to get out of bed. Shouldn't be too difficult, right? He carefully pushed himself to his feet and wobbled for a second before gaining his balance. That would work. One bandaged foot in front of the other. Why was the floor sloping away at an angle? Gritting his teeth, he forced his feet to walk in an approximate straight line to the bag, where he did indeed find the hideous striped pyjamas he had liberated from Molly's bureau. They were damp and the cuffs were crusted with dried mud. As soon as he saw them, more images bubbled up to the surface.  _Running through the mud. White hands reaching out to grab him. Wet and cold. Bloody footprints._  . . NO! Stop it! He refused to lose control. This was his mind; he was not having it hijacked by something that happened over thirty years ago.

Sherlock bit the inside of his cheek and held up the pyjama bottoms. When he lifted up one foot, he had to grab for the wall to keep from falling down. Mycroft made a concerned noise, which he ignored and soldiered on. When he was dressed (well, sort of) and had pilfered a pair of ugly lime-green slippers from a drawer under the IV pole, he pulled back the curtain and strode out the door, ignoring Mycroft who had to hustle to keep up.

"Slow down, please. You're attracting attention."

"No, you're attracting attention by chasing me. Getting winded yet?"

"No. Would you mind telling me what's going on?"

"Go away. I can take a cab home."

"You're not going home."

"Oh, yes I am."

"Sherlock, you are lucky I found you when I did. Psych was on their way down."

"I could handle it." Sherlock had reached the elevator, which, according to the indicator light, was currently on the twelfth floor, while they were on the fifth. He decided it was too slow and headed for the stairs. Mycroft followed. Damn him.

"You could  _handle_  it? How would you  _handle_  West London Hospital?"

"That wasn't going to happen." He entered the stairwell with Mycroft hot on his heels. Mycroft followed him to the landing between floors, then caught his arm as he rounded the corner. Just out of sight of the security camera, Sherlock realized. Of course Mycroft would know exactly where the camera was.

"Let go of me."

"No. You are very fortunate you were found by American exchange students who have never heard of Sherlock Holmes, and doubly fortunate that they brought you here to Royal College Hospital instead of St. Bart's where everyone knows you on sight. Can you imagine if this hit the papers?"

"I didn't need you to come swooping in and rescue me. I was fine."

"Sherlock, you were babbling nonsense," Mycroft said in a conversational tone. He was trying to catch Sherlock's eye, but Sherlock kept his gaze trained on the far wall.

"No I wasn't," he said uncomfortably.

"They told me you were talking about a bear? And vampires."

Sherlock didn't answer that, just stared at the wall with a scowl fixed on his face. Finally Mycroft sighed. "Fine. You are coming home with me. I've cleared my calendar for the rest of the day."

Sherlock's lip twitched. Mycroft had cleared his calendar? He supposed that was meant to make him feel important, that Mycroft cared enough to make him a priority. All it really did was make him feel trapped.

"All right?"

"What choice do I have?," he snarled. He yanked his arm from Mycroft's grasp, straightened his pyjama top, and set off down the stairs again, just fast enough that Mycroft had to hurry to keep up. He found a sleek black car waiting out front, with its motor purring softly. Sherlock opened the back door and got in without looking back. He tried to close the door, but Mycroft pulled it open again.

"Slide over."

"No."

Another sigh, then Mycroft circled around the back of the car and got in on the other side, and the car pulled smoothly into traffic. Sherlock stared straight ahead, but he could tell that Mycroft kept looking at him with a concerned expression on his face. Half a block later, Mycroft could no longer contain himself.

"Would you like to tell me what's going on now?"

"Nothing. I was a little. . . confused."

"Confused?" Mycroft said mildly. "Delusional would seem a more apt description. And what happened to your eye?"

"Nothing."

"Trans-orbital hematoma. The doctors were convinced you had been assaulted."

Sherlock snorted. "No, that was Molly's fault."

"Oh?"

"She banged on the door in the middle of the night and startled me. I fell out of bed."

"I see. I thought perhaps she pushed you out of bed."

"That would be difficult for her to do from the other bedroom. Give me my phone and wallet."

"I haven't got them." Mycroft said (lied, Sherlock was  _almost_  sure), pulling his own mobile from his jacket pocket. "Call Drs Hooper and Watson. They are quite concerned about your well-being."

"I don't want to."

"Sherlock, do it. Dr. Hooper was in a state. Apparently you gave her quite a scare when you bolted from her flat this morning."

_A bear with one big eye is watching him. Clammy white hands at his waist. Vampire teeth grazing his neck_. . . **STOP**! "I don't know why she would be so upset."

Another long-suffering sigh. "Of course you wouldn't. Call her anyway."

With a huff, Sherlock grabbed the phone from Mycroft's hand and sent Molly a text, his fingers jabbing at the screen much harder than necessary.  **I'm fine. Stop worrying. SH.**

"Good. Now John."

"She's with John. She can tell him."

"Fine." Mycroft held out his hand for the phone and Sherlock intentionally tossed it just far enough away so he had to move his hand awkwardly to catch it. This earned him a disapproving look that reminded him so much of their mother that Sherlock had to turn away to hide his smirk.

Mycroft tucked the phone into his inner jacket pocket and settled back into his seat. "You can stay with me tonight."

"Like hell I will."

"I told you I've cleared my calendar for you."

"You said the rest of the day. That does not include the night."

"It's nearly dinnertime. The 'rest of the day' does indeed include the night."

Sherlock looked out the window in surprise, and discovered that indeed the sun was near the horizon. He had lost almost a whole day? He noticed Mycroft watching him and quickly rearranged his face into a scowl.

"Elenor will feed us dinner. I've already notified her to expect us. She's familiar with your. . .eating habits."

Oh, Lord no. The last time Mycroft's housekeeper/cook/general dogsbody had fixed him dinner, she had tried to get him to eat steak and kidney pie. Disgusting. The thought of food turned his stomach just now anyway. Sherlock leaned forward and opened the window to talk to the driver. "Take me to Baker Street."

"Sir?" the driver said without taking his eyes off the road.

"No, my house please, Tim," Mycroft responded over Sherlock's protests.

"Yes, sir."

Mycroft's arm reached in front of Sherlock and closed the window. Sherlock sat back with a scowl. "Stop babying me. I can take care of myself!"

"Yes, obviously."

\--

Chapter 8 will be up on Friday!

 


	8. Damage Control

When they pulled into the circular drive in front of Mycroft's house in Hampstead, Sherlock sat stubbornly in his seat with his arms folded. "Take me to Baker Street."

Mycroft shook his head as the driver opened his door. "Come in when you get cold." He opened his umbrella and stepped out of the car. Sherlock tried to ignore him, but he saw out of the corner of his eye that Mycroft had pulled his phone out of his pocket and was looking at it, so he must have received a text. And judging by the sidelong glance Mycroft gave him, it was about Sherlock. He had already texted Molly (who would no doubt tell John), so it must be Lestrade. He could see that Mycroft was typing a reply.

Sherlock abandoned his attempt to force the driver to take him to Baker Street (he knew it was pointless anyway), clambered out of the car, and picked his way across the gravel in his useless hospital slippers after Mycroft. "I'm not talking to Lestrade," he said crossly when he had caught up with his brother.

Mycroft tucked his phone into his pocket and increased his pace a bit so Sherlock had to hurry to keep up. "Oh? Why not?"

"I don't want to."

"Eloquent as ever, little brother." They had reached the door, which opened for them without Mycroft even touching it. As Mycroft shook the droplets of water off his brolly, he said, "Does this have anything to do with the reason he asked for your baby picture a few days ago?"

'He did?" Dammit, Lestrade! Or rather, Dammit, Sally Donovan, since this was apparently her case. Sherlock followed Mycroft into the house without wiping his feet. It gave him a small sense of satisfaction to track mud onto Mycroft's pristine tile entryway. "You didn't give it to him, I trust."

"I did." Mycroft picked up a newspaper off the entryway table and glanced at it.

"Mycroft!" What an idiot! Sherlock wondered what he had ever done to deserve such an imbecile for a brother. Imagine simply sending off a potentially embarrassing photograph without knowing what it would be used for!

"Why did he want it?" Mycroft asked unconcernedly, eyes on the paper. Sherlock didn't answer that, just stood with his arms folded, staring daggers at Mycroft who was completely ignoring him. Finally Mycroft looked up. "Sherlock? Why did he want it?"

When the only answer was a snarl and averted eyes, Mycroft folded the paper in his hands and sighed. "I had Elenor lay out some clothes for you in the guest bedroom. Dinner will be served in thirty minutes."

"I'm not hungry."

"Of course you're not. Eat anyway."

"No." Sherlock turned and stomped off down the hallway as best he could on his bandaged feet and slippers. It didn't quite have the effect that he had hoped, but at least he was able to leave a trail of wet footprints on the carpet. Mycroft may be able to keep him prisoner here, as he had no phone or wallet, but he couldn't make him wipe his feet, and he certainly couldn't make him eat sodding steak and kidney pie.

* * *

Mycroft forced himself to walk calmly to his bedroom with the newspaper tucked under his arm. He didn't even notice that he too was leaving a line of muddy footprints on the carpet. At the moment, the headline which had been splashed across the front page of the paper was taking up most of his mental processing power. When he reached his room, he carefully closed the door behind him, slipped off his shoes and lined them up perfectly in the space inside his closet, and sat on the edge of his neatly made bed. His heart was pounding, but he refused to let his emotions control his reaction. At least not outwardly. There was nothing he could do about his autonomic functions at the moment, so he didn't bother to try.

As soon as he had seen the headline and the first few details in the article (green blazer with gold crest? It was probably still hanging in the closet of his childhood bedroom), he knew immediately what this was all about. Why Lestrade had requested the photo (which Mycroft had stupidly supplied), why both the Inspector and John had called him to say Sherlock was avoiding them, why Sherlock was falling apart, everything. And he also knew that he couldn't allow his mother to see that headline, not before he had done what he needed to do next. He knew that he would have to tell her eventually, but he preferred to do so later rather than sooner. He could only deal with so much drama at a time. Attempting to broach the subject with Sherlock would be drama enough for one day.

Mycroft pulled his phone out of his pocket and found his father's phone number in his contacts. He sincerely hoped his father would answer, as oftentimes he misplaced his mobile, or didn't hear it ringing. But he needn't have worried, because his father picked up on the second ring.

"Mycroft? How's my boy?"

"Fine, Dad—"

"Good, good. I was just thinking about you boys. Everything all right then?"

"Yes, Dad. I'd like you to take Mummy to Tobago."

"What? Oh, good Lord, Mycroft, what government have you destabilized this time?"

"None. I just need her out of the country for a while."

"What shall I tell her?"

"Tell her you won the lottery."

"She doesn't know I still play. She wouldn't approve. Something about statistics. I didn't understand it all."

"Then tell her it was a gift from me. Go tonight, Dad. I'll arrange the tickets."

"All right, Myc. I'll do it. You're not in danger, are you? Or Sherlock?"

"No, Dad, everything's fine."

"I'll take your word for that then. Take care of Sherlock, please."

"I always do."

As soon as he had disconnected the call, Mycroft texted Anthea and asked her to arrange for his parents to fly to Tobago that evening, the sooner the better. Mummy would be happy to have the holiday, and hopefully not ask too many questions. After he had pressed send, he tucked the phone back into his pocket and attempted to stand up to get ready for dinner, but his legs were not in the mood to obey, so he lay back on the bed and pinched the bridge of his nose tightly and took careful, even breaths. Getting his parents out of the country would buy him time for the next step, which obviously was to call Inspector Lestrade and give him the name of their mystery suspect. That could wait until morning. He always felt better in the morning.

Mycroft hadn't allowed himself to think about that man in a long time. It was all neatly locked away; not inaccessible-he still remembered everything—but under control. It didn't affect him because he didn't allow it to. As for Sherlock. . . Mycroft had always hoped he had been spared. Sherlock had never mentioned anything, and of course Mycroft had never asked him about it. Even the very idea was far too embarrassing to ever contemplate. But now, it appeared that his hope had been in vain and Sherlock had been affected far worse than he had imagined.

_Mycroft is fourteen, all wrists and ankles sticking out from trousers and shirtsleeves that are suddenly too short, finally home from school on summer holiday. He hasn't seen his family for over nine months, since he elected not to come home for Christmas. Mummy and Daddy met him at the door, but his brother was conspicuously absent. Now he stands outside his brother's room listening to the strains of a violin, and he feels a spike of anxiety at the sound. When his mother walks by with a basket of washing, he follows her._

" _I didn't know Wills was taking violin. Who is his teacher?"_

" _The same one you had. Mr Lindt." His mother shifts the basket to her hip and starts down the stairs. "He's lucky he didn't develop an allergy like you did. No hives. He's doing quite well, isn't he?"_

_Mycroft gets in front of her and blocks her way down the stairs. "You have to find him a different teacher."_

_His mother frowns. "Why? He's learning quickly. We're quite pleased."_

" _No! Mummy, you have to take him to someone different! Mr Lindt is rubbish!"_

" _Mycroft! Just because it didn't work out for you doesn't mean it won't for your brother. Now please move out of the way. Or better yet, make yourself useful and carry this basket down to the laundry room for me."_

" _Just do it, Mummy. A boy on my floor is the son of the conductor of the London Philharmonic. I'm sure he can connect you with a suitable instructor."_

" _Don't be silly, Mykie."_

" _Yes, Mother, just do as I say!"_

_His mother pushes him out of the way with the basket and passes him on the stairs. "My goodness, Mycroft Alistair Holmes! You'll do well to remember that I am your parent and not the other way around." She looks him up and down. "And put those trousers on my sewing table so I can let them out. You are literally getting too big for your britches, young man."_

_She continues down the stairs, leaving Mycroft watching after her. The sounds of the violin continue from his brother's room, pulling Mycroft toward the door. He recognizes Mozart's violin concerto number 5. Such a beautiful piece, and his brother is playing it with amazing skill for someone so young._

_Mycroft knocks on the closed door, but opens it without waiting for a response. His little brother, wearing gray shorts and a green school jumper, is standing facing the window. He has stopped playing but still holds the violin in position under his chin._

" _Hullo, Wills."_

" _I'm called Sherlock."_

" _I don't understand why you would choose that name. You had two other perfectly good options."_

" _Mummy says I can be called whatever I want. Now go away."_

" _Are you all right?"_

" _Why wouldn't I be all right?"_

" _I just wondered. . ." Mycroft hesitates. He can't say the words that are on the tip of his tongue. They won't come out, so he says something else instead. "If there's something wrong, you can tell me."_

_Sherlock's thin shoulders hunch. "Nothing's wrong. And I wouldn't tell you if there were." He starts putting his violin into its case without turning around. He is taking exaggerated care with the task._

" _Sherlock. . ."_

" _Go away."_

_Mycroft stands awkwardly in the doorway, very conscious of the gulf between himself and his brother. It is the same gulf that seems to exist between himself and_ _**everyone** _ _. He is aware that somehow he is creating that gulf, that unspannable chasm, but he doesn't know how NOT to. His schoolmates always seem to be able to build such close relationships, with each other, with their families, but to him it is a foreign language, one that he can't learn, even though he wants to, so he has given up on it, pretends it doesn't matter. Pretends he doesn't care._

_Sherlock takes up a pillow and throws it at his brother, hitting him in the stomach. "Go away, fatso."_

_So Mycroft does what he knows how to do. He leaves. He walks out without saying the words that are burning a hole in his chest. He leaves his baby brother to face it alone. And for that, he will never forgive himself._

* * *

**Author's note** : I wrote this with my own two paws (ok, yes, sevenpercent helped me quite a bit). I think you should comment on it!


	9. The Beauty of the Mind Palace

Sherlock woke up, sweaty and disoriented, on the floor. He hadn't been on the floor when he went to sleep, but that was where he woke up, which meant that he had had another nightmare, and this time he remembered it. Not all of it, just enough to turn his stomach.  _Clammy hands touching him all over, hurting him. A voice whispers in his ear, words that he can't quite catch. Yellow and green flowers. A bear in a beefeater's uniform, with one big, staring eye. Wet lips against his neck, then teeth graze the skin._ Stop stop STOP!

Sherlock could feel his breathing coming faster, too fast, but he couldn't slow it down.  _Music, a sad tune he can't quite recall, a cheap violin in his hands, can't quite reach the E string. Cool hands at his waist turn him around. He tries to see the face, but he can't manage it. When he struggles to lift his eyes, he feels his stomach heave and bile rise in his throat._  He pushed the heels of his hands against his eyes hard enough to hurt, but it didn't help. The face remained just out of view. All he could see were the hands, and the bear watching him.

The door flew open suddenly and Mycroft burst in, still dressed in his clothes and clutching his stupid newspaper, slightly out of breath. He must have run down the hall. "I thought I locked that door," Sherlock said crossly. Mycroft's response was to hold up the key clutched in his fat fist. "But of course you have the key. You have to control everything, don't you?"

Sherlock was surprised when Mycroft didn't answer; instead he sat down next to Sherlock on the floor with his back against the side of the bed. For a moment, they both sat still, Sherlock eying Mycroft, who had leaned his head back against the rumpled bedspread and closed his eyes.

Finally Sherlock said, "Well, this has been fun, but I think I'll—"

"I know what's wrong," Mycroft interrupted abruptly, eyes still closed.

"There's nothing wrong. I just fell out of the bed. It's hardly my fault. Your sheets and pyjamas are both slippery."

"You were shouting for Daddy."

"No I wasn't. Now please just toddle off."

"Sherlock, I know there's something wrong. I know what it is."

"You don't know anyth. . ." He trailed off when Mycroft opened the newspaper to the front page and held it up to him. He caught a glimpse of the headline above the fold:  **Burglar with a Conscience exposes Paedophile** , it blared in huge bold letters. Sherlock froze, eyes locked on the headline. He opened his mouth to tell Mycroft to piss off, but no sound came out of his suddenly dry throat. A hard swallow didn't help. He could still taste bile.  _Teeth against his neck. Clammy hands at his waist, turning him around. Hands inside his trousers_ —STOP IT RIGHT NOW!

"Sherlock, I know what he did."

"What who did?"

"Your violin teacher. I know."

"H-how do you know? I didn't even know."

"You didn't?"

"I didn't remember. It came back to me when Molly shoved that stupid bear in my face."  _The bear is watching him with one shiny oversized eye. He stares at the gold trim on the uniform while hands slide down his back. . ._  JUST STOP!

"A bear?" Mycroft asked faintly.

"Yes. It sat on his telly. It had on a red and black beefeater uniform, and it was always watching with one big eye." Sherlock hadn't intended to tell Mycroft any of this, but now that he had started, the words tumbled out and he couldn't stop them.

"Oh, God. . ."

"I didn't remember until today," he admitted. "That's the beauty of the mind palace. So easy to lock things away."

Next to him, Mycroft leaned his head back against the side of the bed again and put his hand on his forehead. "Oh, God, the bear."

"What?"

"The eye. I remember the eye."

"What are you on about?" Sherlock demanded. Mycroft's only response was to squeeze his eyes shut and press his forefinger and thumb against his eyelids. "What do you mean, you remember the bear?"

No response.

"Myc?"

Mycroft took a ragged breath, let it out slowly, and then took another and said in a sudden burst, "Mummy took me to him too, when I was eight. You were just a baby."

Sherlock jumped up, suddenly furious. "You never took violin!"

"Yes, I did. Just a short while. After three lessons Mummy let me switch to piano."

"That's not true! You're lying!"

"Yes, it's true."

"You—you never told! Why didn't you ever tell?!"

Mycroft shook his head wearily. "I didn't know that you—I was off at school. I didn't know you were having lessons with him."

"You should have told! It's all your fault!"

"You never told anyone either."

"What good would that have done? I didn't have any little brother to protect."

"No, but there were others. The article says the videos span over fifteen years."

"What? They didn't—Donovan never—She only showed me. . ." Sherlock broke off. Fifteen years? How many boys?

Now Mycroft struggled to his feet too. "You could have stopped it!" he snapped.

"And you could have stopped it happening to me!" Sherlock shouted back in his face. He could feel his breath coming in quick, ragged gasps that he couldn't control. For a moment both brothers stared at each other with matching snarls on their faces. Sherlock felt his hands ball into fists.

Suddenly Mycroft took a step back and dropped his hands to his sides. "We are standing here blaming each other, while the man who really deserves the blame is sitting comfortably in his flat on Lockyer Street, just around the corner from a primary school."

"You know who he is?"

"Yes. Don't you?"

Sherlock shook his head with a growl. "I can't remember. I can picture his hands perfectly, but I can't quite see his face. His name and the location of his house are gone entirely. Every time I try to remember, I feel as if I'm about to be sick." Sherlock unbuttoned the silky pyjama top and began changing into the spare clothing that had been left out for him. Mycroft's tan trousers, made from a finespun wool, were very soft, but were baggy at the waist so he cinched the belt to keep them up.

"What are you doing?"

"Getting dressed, obviously. I'd think even a dullard like you—"

"It's the middle of the night! Where are you going?"

Sherlock finished buttoning the shirt and jammed his bandaged feet into the expensive shoes, which were a size too big. "I'm going to Lockyer Street. I'll recognize the building when I see it." He pulled the green jumper on (he wasn't even sure why Mycroft bothered to own a jumper, as all he ever wore were three-piece-suits), then headed toward the front door with his shoes untied, while Mycroft hurried along after.

"And then do what?"

"I haven't decided yet."

"We should call Inspector Lestrade."

"Really?" Sherlock busied himself with tying the shoes. "I notice you haven't done that yet."

"I was planning to do it in the morning."

"Well, feel free. I'm going to do something about this now." Sherlock said as he grabbed Mycroft's anorak off the hook in the entryway. Mycroft scooped up his umbrella and followed him out the door into the rain.

"You stay here."

"No, I'm coming with you. We can call Lestrade when we get there."

As Sherlock stomped down the front steps, wondering how on earth he was going to find a taxi in Hampstead at this time of night, a black car pulled up to the kerb. Goddammit! How did Mycroft do that? Sherlock yanked open the back door and slammed it behind him, leaving Mycroft to circle around the car to the passenger side.

While Mycroft was getting into the car, Sherlock leaned forward and opened the window to the front. "Lockyer Street," he said shortly, but of course Mycroft overruled him.

"Let us off on Kipling Street, please, Tim."

"Yes, Sir. Shall I wait for you?"

"No need. I'll let you know when and where to pick us up." Mycroft shut the window and leaned back in the seat. As they accelerated smoothly onto the street, Sherlock pretended to look out the window while he watched Mycroft out of the corner of his eye. Hair and suit a bit rumpled, tie loose, but otherwise looking completely unruffled. Part of him hated Mycroft for always being so controlled. Nothing affected him. Another part of him depended on that strength and stability to keep him on an even keel. Whatever happened, Mycroft could (and would) handle it.

As soon as the car pulled up to the kerb on Kipling Street, a block away from the entrance to Lockyer, Sherlock ejected himself and strode off down the street. He knew where he was going now. He remembered walking with his mother from the primary school around the corner, his hand small and sweaty in hers, his stomach knotted from anxiety of knowing what was about to happen. Some of the landscaping had changed, shrubbery had gotten taller, but otherwise the neighborhood looked just as he remembered it. The little corner shop with the bubblegum machine out front (he would always beg his mother for gum, and she always said no), the brick buildings lining the dead end street on both sides. Sherlock was aware that Mycroft was following closely behind, umbrella held up to cover them both. He found it irritating. So like Mycroft to try to protect him when he hadn't asked for it and didn't need it. He lengthened his stride to get out from under the umbrella, ignoring the protest from his still-bandaged feet.

Mr Lindt's flat was in the building on the right side of the street, so Sherlock headed that way. He remembered the door to the building. Blank, gray metal, like a prison, or so it had seemed to his six-year-old mind. A prison and he was the prisoner. Well, no longer. The door was locked, but that didn't matter.

"Give me a credit card."

"Sherlock. . ."

"Give it to me!"

"We should call Inspector Lestrade now. He can meet us here."

"You call him. I'm going in. Now give me a card."

Mycroft took out his wallet and extracted a card, which he handed to Sherlock with a sigh. "What are you planning?"

Sherlock slid the card into the gap between the door and frame and pulled up on the knob. "I'm still deciding." The door popped open with a satisfying click.

"Hurting him won't change anything." Was that a note of anxiety in Mycroft's voice? Excellent. He took a sort of grim satisfaction in making Mycroft nervous. Mycroft had his phone in his hand, but Sherlock could see that he hadn't attempted to make a call yet.

"But it will feel so good." First door on the right. He remembered it clearly now. Flat number 101. Tan welcome mat with a brown cartoonish owl, faded now, but the eyes were still bright. He had always imagined those eyes were accusing him of some nameless crime, and what happened inside the door was the punishment. Sherlock made a point of stepping directly on the owl's face while he slid in the credit card and bumped the door open with his shoulder.

* * *

**Author's note:**  What, did you think they'd have a nice chat and all would be resolved? These are the Holmes brothers we're talking about here!

 


	10. Best-laid plans of mice and Mycroft

* * *

The flat was semi-dark, the only light coming in through a gap in the curtains from the streetlamp in the alley behind the building. Sherlock took the first two steps inside the door confidently. He didn't have a clear plan, but it definitely started with dragging the man inside out of bed by his hair. After that he wasn't sure. He still couldn't picture the man's face, only the hands, but he was certain he would recognize him when he saw him.

Suddenly the hall light flicked on and Sherlock's heart leapt up into his throat, blocking off the air. An instant later, a man came around the corner. Sherlock gaped at him. The man was  _old_ , much older than he was expecting, heavy-set, balding, taller than Sherlock, but frail-looking and wobbly on his feet. He was dressed in baggy plaid pyjamas and a faded dressing gown. The man braced himself with a hand against the wall and blinked owlishly at them.

Sherlock blinked back for a second, trying to see past the wrinkles and jowls to the man he remembered. Slowly the image came into focus, fragmented at first:  _brown suit_ ,  _a black pompadour, weak jaw with crooked teeth, large eyes behind black-rimmed glasses_. Sherlock swallowed hard and forced air past the lump in his throat. He carefully rearranged his face into an unconcerned mask. "Hello, Mr Lindt. Remember us?"

"Who—who are you?"

"Well, you'd have to picture us smaller," Sherlock answered flippantly.

There was a brief pause, then the man's wet lips parted in a little gasp of surprise. "Sherlock? And. . . Mycroft, is it? Why are you here?"

"I remember what you did."

Suddenly the man's eyes widened and he stumbled forward a step, hand out. "I never hurt you. I—I loved you," he said in a quavering voice that was shockingly familiar, and suddenly all of the pieces came together in Sherlock's mind to form a recognizable face: The face of the Vampire that had haunted his dreams as a child. With the shock of recognition came a rush of acid into his mouth. Sherlock froze, unable to catch his breath. He gasped like a fish, shoulders jerking, but no air was getting in.

"You were special, Sherlock. So talented, so beautiful. Such a clever boy. . ."

Sherlock stared at him, unmoving except for a slight sway. Those words—he had heard those words before, many times, always associated with such a bewildering swirl of conflicting emotions. On the one hand: physical pain, as well as fear, shame, despair. On the other hand: the thrill of feeling, for the first time in his life, that he was clever, that what he had to say was worth listening to, that he was something other than an annoying little pest; all overlaid with the excitement of being entrusted with a secret that even Mycroft didn't know.

Mr Lindt took another halting step forward with his hand outstretched toward Sherlock's arm. "What we had was special. You loved me too. Both of you."

"No I didn't," Sherlock said in a small, unconvincing voice. "It hurt. You hurt me." That hand. . .  _long, pale fingers with very white, rounded nails. Soft clammy hands slide over his skin. Those nails dig into his shoulders. PAIN. It hurts it hurts it hurts. Bright spots of blood stain his pants. . ._ stop please stop can't make it stop. . .

Mr Lindt shook his head. "You loved me too. Our relationship was beautiful and special, just like you."

Sherlock wanted to scream, to run, hide; but he did none of those things. He couldn't. He was frozen in place like a statue, unable to move, unable even to look away.

* * *

Mycroft stood behind Sherlock's shoulder watching the exchange with alarm. He didn't understand exactly what was happening between Sherlock and Mr Lindt, but he knew he didn't like it. The confidence with which his little brother had strode into the flat seemed to have vanished, and now Sherlock was staring at the man with such an expression of confusion and hurt on his face that Mycroft couldn't bear it. Mycroft's phone was still in his hand, but he had forgotten all about it in the moment.

Mr Lindt had taken another step forward and now his hand was almost on Sherlock's arm, which caused a spark of fury to catch in Mycroft's throat. He stepped around Sherlock, who still hadn't moved, and pushed the hand away. "Don't touch him," he growled.

Mr Lindt tottered but stayed on his feet. Mycroft advanced and poked a finger in his chest to back him off. "You loved him?" he spat. "You interfered with him. Him, me, and dozens of other boys." When Mr Lindt opened his mouth to object, Mycroft cut him off. "You didn't love us. You violated us."

Sherlock's voice, shaky but full of spite, came from behind Mycroft. " _Interfered_  with us? Call it what it is, Mycroft."

Not taking his eyes off Lindt, Mycroft asked, "What do you mean?" There was no answer. "Sherlock? What is it?"

"It was  _rape_."

This spun Mycroft around. " _Rape_? No, it was just—just—touching. . ."

"No, it was consensual!" Lindt sputtered. "You wanted it. You—"

Suddenly all the air was gone from Mycroft's lungs, like he had been kicked in the solar plexus. And then a rush of pure rage washed over him, wiping out any other thought. His phone clattered to the floor unheeded. He turned and gave Lindt a solid shove to the chest, knocking him to the floor. The old man started trying to crab crawl backward.

"You raped my little brother?!" He shouted. "You animal! You piece of excrement!" And then he was kicking the man in the side, the back, the legs, harder and harder, scarcely even aware of what he was doing. Lindt curled up into a ball with his arms over his head, but Mycroft didn't stop.

"Mycroft!"

He ignored the voice from behind him and kept venting his fury on the pathetic creature huddled on the floor in front of him. Mycroft was breathing hard, his shirt was coming untucked, he was sweating and spittle was flying, but he didn't even notice. His vision narrowed, like looking through a backwards telescope, to include only the small area where his foot connected with flabby flesh under red and blue plaid pyjamas.

"Mycroft, you're going to kill him!" The voice came from far away, barely audible over the pounding of his heart in his ears. A hand grabbed for his arm and he jerked away hard. His elbow connected with something solid, something that made a crunching sound. There was a grunt and the hand fell away, followed by a thud, but it didn't register. His foot kept moving in an unbroken rhythm.

Finally a small voice intruded on his awareness. "Mykie?"

Mycroft took a step back, breathing hard, and wiped the back of his shaking hand across his mouth as he turned. Sherlock was sitting on the floor breathing very fast, eyes wide and staring at the curled form of the monster on the floor, while a trickle of blood flowed from his lower lip.

Mycroft blinked and suddenly he saw a tiny boy in shorts and a green jumper, with wild black curls and huge blue-green eyes filled with tears. When he blinked again, the little boy had been replaced with the adult Sherlock, dry-eyed, in ill-fitting borrowed clothes. The look of wide-eyed confusion and pain was gone, but in its place was. . . nothing. Sherlock was staring blankly at Lindt with no emotion, no expression.

Carefully Mycroft forced his breathing back into an even rhythm. The blood was still thumping in his ears, but as he slowly inhaled and exhaled, it subsided enough for him to bring his body back under partial control. His foot was throbbing in pain and his hands were still trembling, but there was nothing to be done about that. He picked up his phone and smoothed his hair as best he could before sitting down next to Sherlock on the floor. His brother didn't acknowledge him in any way. He hadn't even moved to wipe away the blood that was now dripping off his chin.

Mycroft pulled his handkerchief from his inner jacket pocket and held it out to Sherlock, who blinked at it wordlessly.

"You're bleeding." He gestured toward Sherlock's mouth. Sherlock took the handkerchief and wiped at his lip, and then pulled it back and looked at it, as if puzzled as to how the blood had gotten there. Mycroft squinted at him. "Sherlock? Are you all right?"

After a moment, Sherlock gave a small nod. His eyes were still locked on the huddled man on the floor in front of them. They both silently sat and stared at Lindt for a moment, who was curled up in a fetal position on the floor with his arms wrapped around his midsection, making little whimpering sounds with each labored breath. He certainly didn't look so frightening now, thought Mycroft. He wondered why he had wasted all those years allowing himself to be haunted by the spectre of that man, when the reality was so wretched and pathetic.

The next step, obviously, was to call Inspector Lestrade and request his assistance. It should have been done before. He activated the phone and opened his contacts to do just that.

Suddenly, before Mycroft had a chance to find Lestrade's number, there was a sharp rap on the door, metal on metal, and then a male voice called, "Mr Lindt? It's the police, Sir. We're coming in."

Mycroft glanced over at Sherlock, who hadn't responded to the sound. He thought briefly that perhaps he could drag his unresponsive brother out the back door, but it was too late. The police officers were already coming in the door, which was still unlatched as Mycroft had left it when they entered. Lindt lifted his head and moaned softly.

The two police officers were young, one tall, one short, both built like tanks. As soon as they saw Lindt on the ground, the taller one pulled out his baton and said "Stay where you are, please. Hands where I can see them," in a Scottish lilt.

With an air of resignation, Mycroft raised his hands. When Sherlock did not, Mycroft nudged him with his shoulder until he too blinked and put his hands in the air.

"Oh, thank goodness, officers." Lindt quavered. "These men broke into my flat and assaulted me."

Mycroft opened his mouth to dispute that account, but was interrupted by the clink of handcuffs. The shorter officer was pulling an unresisting Sherlock's hands down behind his back and cuffing them together.

"That's not necessary, officer. . ." Mycroft said in a reasonable tone. He expected that at any moment Sherlock would speak up with some biting deduction, perhaps the obvious fact that, based on their misbuttoned shirts and lipstick-stained necks, these officers had been patronizing prostitutes when they had taken this call, but still Sherlock said nothing.

"You can give a statement down at the station, mate." The taller officer pulled his cuffs out of his belt one-handed and tossed them to his partner, who had finished with Sherlock and was now approaching Mycroft.

"We're not resisting," he tried again, but it was no use. They were about to be arrested by a couple of corrupt imbeciles. Mycroft forced himself to breathe evenly, then said, "Constable, could you please call Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade at NSY?"

"Why would we do that?" The constable asked. His partner took Mycroft's phone from his hand and pulled both hands down behind his back to apply the cuffs, much tighter than Mycroft thought necessary.

"Check my jacket pocket for my identification, gentlemen. Trust me, you will want to do as I say. I'm sure Inspector Lestrade will be able to clear things up."

The shorter cop dug around in Mycroft's pocket and came up with his wallet. He handed it to his partner, who flipped through it. "MI-6? What are you doing down here?"

"That is unimportant. Will you please call Inspector Lestrade?

You got his number?"

"In my phone, which your partner is holding."

"We can phone him, but I can't guarantee he'll be happy to get the call." The constable held up his hand, and his partner tossed him Mycroft's phone. "It's locked."

"Yes, if you'll just. . ." Mycroft awkwardly worked his hands around and tried to enter the code. "This would be easier if you removed the handcuffs."

"You could give me the unlock code."

"Hmm, no. I've got it." On the third attempt, Mycroft's shaky fingers finally got the unlock code right, and the constable started searching through the contact list. His partner gave Mycroft a quick patdown, then went to check on Lindt, who was now sitting up with his hands to his head, even though Mycroft was sure there was no injury there. Mycroft ignored him and worriedly watched Sherlock, who was still staring into space with a blank expression on his face.

* * *

 

 

A/N: Hey, two chapters for the price of one! That deserves a comment!


	11. Bonsai, bear's eye

* * *

The buzzing of his phone pulled Lestrade out of a sound sleep. Not that he minded: his dreams had been haunted by Johnny Blue Eyes' accusing stare again, and he was glad to leave that behind.

"Lestrade," he croaked into the phone.

"DI Lestrade? Sorry to phone you in the middle of the night, sir. This is Constable Roland McLoud from the Southwark Borough. I have a couple of chaps here who claim to know you, and I'm just checking out. . ."

"A couple of chaps?" Lestrade interrupted. Sherlock and John? Why would they be in Southwark? "Put John on the phone."

There was a scratching sound of the constable putting his hand over the phone, then muffled voices in the background. Finally the constable's voice came back on the line. "No John here. His name's Mike or something like that. Claims to be MI-6, if you can believe that."

"Mycroft!" came a familiar voice in the background. Good God, Mycroft? What the hell had Mycroft Holmes done to get himself arrested?

"Yeah, Mycroft. Him and another fellow broke into someone's flat in the middle of the night and beat him to hell, apparently. I'm trying to get the whole story."

Lestrade was pretty sure he knew who that "other fellow" was, and there was only one thing he could think of that would have both Sherlock and Mycroft breaking into a man's flat to beat on him. Damn it! If Sherlock or Mycroft knew who their perp was, why hadn't they just called Donovan?! "Give me the address. I'm on my way."

"I'd like to get these two booked for assault."

"Don't do it, Constable. I'll be there in fifteen minutes. Don't touch anything."

Lestrade noted the name and address, disconnected the call and quickly phoned Donovan. As soon as she answered, he said, "You're never going to believe this."

* * *

So apparently Constable McLoud's definition of "don't touch anything" included stringing crime scene tape everywhere and bringing in the paramedics. Lestrade ducked under the tape and then held it up for Donovan on the way in the front door of the building, which was standing open unguarded.

"Let's get back-up on that door," he muttered to Donovan, who replied, "I'm already on it. Just texted Stauffer."

"Not Fadil? Thought he was helping you out on this."

"Not anymore."

Lestrade raised his eyebrows at that, but she didn't elaborate, so he just led the way to flat 101, which according to the Constable was owned by a man named Rainer Lindt. The door to the flat was standing open and was also festooned with more yellow tape across the doorway. Inside he found Mycroft standing in a suit that looked like it had been slept in, hair rumpled, hands cuffed behind his back. He didn't spot Sherlock at first, but then he followed Mycroft's gaze to the floor in front of the sofa (which was now brown, not yellow and green as Lestrade had been expecting), where Sherlock was sitting, also cuffed, with a vacant expression on his face and a smear of dried blood below his swollen lower lip.

Paramedics were working on an elderly man, who was seated on the floor, looking a bit dazed, with a blood pressure cuff wrapped around his upper arm. Lestrade could tell the exact moment that Donovan spotted the old man too—her breath suddenly caught in her throat and she stopped short a few steps behind Lestrade.

"Sally?" he said quietly, turning to face her.

She said nothing, but she didn't have to. Her expression said it all. Her narrowed eyes were fixed on the man's face, and her top lip was raised in an almost-snarl.

"Yeah?" he asked her quietly.

"Yeah, that's him. I know it."

"I thought you couldn't see his whole face in the videos?"

"I saw enough."

"The sofa's brown, not yellow and green flowered."

"It's the same shape. He's re-covered it."

"All right." Lestrade flipped open his badge and waved it at the young constable who was standing with arms folded and an arrogant sneer on his face. "All right, take the cuffs off these two."

"Sir, we have good evidence these two blokes assaulted—"

Donovan interrupted him. "You have no idea what's really going on here, Constable." She didn't wait for McLoud and his partner to get moving: she already had her keys out and was crouching beside Sherlock. Her expression had softened a bit, which caught Lestrade by surprise. "It's all right," she said gently. "I'm going to take the cuffs off you, ok?"

When he said nothing, she repeated "Ok," and took a deep breath. Her eyes flicked to Lestrade, who was watching the exchange with concern.

"Call John?" he mouthed at her while she unlocked the cuffs, which seemed to wake Sherlock up a little.

"No need," Sherlock said suddenly, rubbing at his wrists where the cuffs had bit into the flesh. "I'm all right." But Lestrade noted that his eyes still darted around the flat vacantly.

"Sherlock, is that him?" Donovan asked as she tried to maneuver around into his field of vision. Sherlock's eyebrows scrunched together in the middle, but he didn't answer. "C'mon, Sherlock, please just say it."

When Sherlock still didn't answer, Mycroft spoke up. "Yes, that's him."

Donovan turned to Lestrade. "That's enough, yeah?"

He nodded at her, and she gave him a small, triumphant grin, just a quick flash, and then her face rearranged into a fierce expression. "This is your arrest, Sergeant," Lestrade said quietly.

"Right." Donovan pulled her own cuffs from her pocket and approached the old man, who was still sitting on the floor. The paramedic who was checking his blood pressure watched her openmouthed and seemed disinclined to move, so she stepped around him. "Rainer Lindt, I am arresting you for suspicion of sexual assault." (the man began to sputter) ". . .You do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned something which you later rely on in court. Anything you say may be given in evidence." Donovan clicked the handcuffs a notch tighter. Lestrade could see the metal cutting into the flesh, but he said nothing.

"I—I don't understand. These men broke into my flat and assaulted me. . ."

"Save it. This will go a lot better for you if you tell us where the camera is."

"Camera? What are you talking about?"

"A hidden camera. We know you have one. Where is it?"

"I don't have a hidden camera in my flat," he said indignantly.

"You lying sack of shit," she muttered.

"That's slander!" the old man cried. "I've been assaulted, and now I'm being slandered and falsely imprisoned!"

Shaking her head, Donovan crossed to Sherlock. "Where's the camera?" she said.

He squinted at her. "I don't know."

"Yes, you do. You were looking right at it. I think you said it's in a plant, a bonsai."

Sherlock blinked and suddenly it was like a switch had been thrown. His eyes lost their glazed look, narrowed and sharpened back to his usual glare. "I don't know what you're talking about."

Donovan shook her head and looked like she was about to say something snarky, so Lestrade quickly broke in. "Check all the plants."

"What are we looking for?" the constable's younger partner asked. He looked around the flat, clearly puzzled. There was no bonsai that Lestrade could see, but a few other potted plants dotted the flat.

"A hidden camera."

"It's not in a plant," Mycroft said in a weary tone. Lestrade's head snapped around and he saw that Mycroft too was rubbing his wrists, which were rawer than Sherlock's and deeply bruised from the cuffs. "It's in a teddy bear. In the eye."

"Oh!" Donovan exclaimed. "Not 'bonsai', ' _bear's eye'_. They look the same." She moved around the flat, sharp eyes scanning the shelves. "I don't see a bear."

"It was on top of the television. I remember it."

"Not there now. Damn!"

"Young lady, as I told you, I have no hidden camera," Lindt broke in. "This is ridiculous."

"So you won't mind if we search your flat, then."

"I—I think I'd better speak to my solicitor before I allow that. Yes, I'll have to talk to my solicitor."

She gave a huff and turned to Lestrade, who held up a placating hand. "We'll get a warrant."

"We could do the search without a warrant," she muttered back, only loud enough for him to hear.

"Come on, Sally, you want to do this right. Don't leave him any room to fight it."

She blew out a frustrated breath. "Yeah, you're right. What about the Wonder Twins over there?"

"Hmm. Those two. . ." Lestrade studied the Holmes brothers out of the corner of his eye, surreptitiously, even though they didn't look in any condition to notice he was watching them. Mycroft had crossed to where Sherlock was sitting, and was standing next to him with what looked like a composed expression, but there was something lurking in his eyes, something that made Lestrade uneasy. Sherlock had his arms folded. His eyebrows were scrunched together in the middle and his lips were pressed into a fierce scowl. It seemed the best course of action to get them out of there quick. "Why don't you take them back to the station and see what you can get out of them? I'll wait here for the warrant. After you've gotten their statements, you can come back."

"Get their statements? That seems awfully optimistic." She shot Sherlock an appraising sort of look that made Lestrade nervous.

"Yeah, well, give it your best shot. Mycroft might be willing to talk. Oh, and Sally?"

"Yeah?"

"Don't pick a fight with Sherlock. He's a  _victim_."

"Yeah, I know. I had to watch it happen, remember?"

* * *

Donovan wrangled Constable Stauffer's patrol vehicle to take the Holmes brothers back to the station. Mycroft got into the back and slid over to make room for Sherlock, who hesitated for a second, looking back and forth between the front seat and back seat before climbing in beside Donovan in the front. She shot him a bemused glance, but he wasn't looking at her; instead he was slumped down in his seat staring at the glove compartment with his eyes narrowed and his lips and eyebrows slanted downward into an intense scowl, as if it had somehow offended him. It was the sort of expression that definitely did not invite any interaction, so she kept her eyes on the road and her mouth shut.

At the station, she separated them. When they reached Interrogation Room One, she opened the door and said "Sherlock, in here," and he went without objection. Mycroft tried to follow him in, but she stepped in front of him and wordlessly shut the door with Sherlock on the inside and them on the outside. Then she recruited Howard, a bright young intern with punked-out purple hair, to sit outside the door and make sure he didn't leave, or at least call her quick if he tried. She didn't think Howard could actually stop him, of course, but he was the only one she could find at that time of night.

"This way, Mr Holmes," she said, pointing the way to the next interrogation room. For an instant, he glanced anxiously at the gray metal door that separated him from Sherlock, but the anxiety quickly disappeared and was replaced by a neutral expression, like a curtain falling. It was a mask, Donovan realized, a way to pretend he didn't care. A self-protective mechanism.

In Interrogation Room Two, she told him to have a seat, but first he pulled out a chair for her, as if he were the host and had invited her for tea. He even waited for her to sit before he did. She knew it was his way of trying to control the situation, but she played along.

"Would you like something to drink? Tea?" she asked.

"No, thank you." His voice was perfectly calm and controlled. The wrinkles seemed to have fallen out of his suit. Even his hair was back in place, although she had never seen him fix it. Donovan wasn't sure where to start with him.


	12. Fire and Ice

Donovan wasn't religious, but she tossed up a quick prayer to any gods who might be listening before starting the questioning, because she had a feeling she was going to need the help. Pulling her small voice recorder from her pocket, she set it on the table in front of Mycroft Holmes. "I need to take a statement from you to help in our investigation of Rainer Lindt for child abuse. Do you mind if I record this conversation?"

"Of course you may." His voice was steady, smooth and cold as ice.

"Right." She repositioned the recorder on the table and started the recording. His calm was obviously intended to give the impression that he was in control, but she suddenly realized that she knew better. His anxious glance after Sherlock had given him away. He was like a duck: completely composed on the surface, but paddling like crazy underneath. "State your name for the record."

"Mycroft Holmes."

"Can you tell me what happened tonight?"

"I broke into the flat and assaulted Mr Lindt," he said immediately. "Sherlock was following me. There is no need to involve him in this."

"We'll decide that later. You don't need to worry about Sherlock."

He leveled his gaze at her. "I always worry about Sherlock."

"Right. Well, the best way you can help him is to tell me what happened. If you'll just answer a few questions, please."

There was a brief hesitation before he responded. Then he reached out and tapped the pause button on her voice recorder. "Sergeant Donovan, I am willing to give you a statement," he said with his hand still resting on her recorder. "I know it is important for your case. However, there is no need for you to question Sherlock. My statement should be enough."

Donovan chewed her lip. "I—I can't make any promises, Mr Holmes."

For a moment, he simply sat and gazed at her. Sizing her up. She felt completely exposed under his appraisal. It was worse than being deduced by Sherlock. Much worse.  _He's like a duck_ , she reminded herself. He is trying to rattle you. With an effort, she gazed back without quailing.

Finally he sighed and said, "Very well." He pressed the record button on the voice recorder and said "I am giving this statement with the understanding that it will be sufficient to secure a prosecution and that my brother will not be approached to give evidence in open court, nor his involvement in the case become known in the press."

Donovan had to admire his dedication, although she hardly felt Sherlock deserved it. At least one of them would give her a statement. "Can you tell me how you met Rainer Lindt?"

He pressed his lips together and stared at the wall for a moment. When finally he started speaking, it was in a perfectly steady voice, as if he were discussing the weather.

"I was eight years old when my mother took me to violin lessons with Rainer Lindt. She chose him as an instructor because he had been a member of the London Symphony Orchestra, and also because he lived two blocks from the primary school I was attending at the time."

"What school was that?"

"Rutherford Primary School in Southwark."

Donovan pulled out her notepad and wrote that name down, with a note to talk to the headmaster about some of the other boys featured in the videos. "Ok, go on."

"The first lesson was perfectly ordinary. He taught me the parts of the violin and how to hold the bow. The second lesson started out innocently enough, but partway through he asked me to remove my blazer. Then he had me stand in front of him and placed his hands on my hands. Soon his hands moved lower, down my arms to my stomach. It made me uncomfortable, but I did not tell him to stop."

Mycroft broke off. He was staring straight ahead and sitting quite still, but Donovan could see the muscle in his jaw twitching slightly.

"Mr Holmes?" she prompted.

His eyes dropped and he blinked several times. She followed his gaze to his hands, which were folded on the table, and saw that his knuckles had turned white and there were indentations in the skin from the pressure of his fingers. A small crack in the armor.

"Mr Holmes, can you tell me what happened next?" she prompted again, a little more gently this time.

"He told me I was special. That I was. . . destined for greatness. He said that I would be a very important man someday." Mycroft's lip twitched. "It was what I wanted to hear. Somehow he knew that. Then he touched me inappropriately."

"Can you please be more specific? What do you mean by that?"

"He—" There was a long pause where Mycroft stared at his fingers laced together on the table. He seemed to be trying to force them to relax, but it wasn't working. "He placed his hands on the front of my trousers. He touched me on the genitals."

"Ok. Did he do anything else?"

"The following lesson—". Mycroft took a deep breath and let it out slowly. Just as Donovan was going to ask him again if he wanted something to drink, he continued, in a perfectly controlled voice, "He placed his hands inside my trousers, all the while telling me in my ear how special and important I was. I remember being very confused. I began to cry."

"I'm sorry. I know this is difficult."

"There is no cause for concern, Sergeant Donovan. I am not in need of your sympathy." His voice was completely composed, but his hands were telling a different story. They were clenched together so tightly that Donovan was sure he was going to have bruises.

"Um. . .yeah. Mr Holmes, you know we have videotapes of the assaults, correct?"

"Yes, I have read the article in the Mail, although I do not consider that a reliable source."

"Right. I apologize that you had to learn about this case through the newspaper. Well, yours was the first video, and you've described exactly what happened on that tape. But—well, the others were more. . . extensive, but yours ended after the first three lessons. Can you tell me what happened next?"

Mycroft's lips pursed. "I quit."

"You quit?"

"Yes. I—erm—broke out into hives, actually. When my mother asked what happened, I told her I was allergic to the violin rosin. She canceled my violin lessons and let me take up piano instead."

"Oh. So you only had three lessons. And he didn't do anything else to you." In her mind, Donovan was reviewing definitions of degrees of charges: No aggravating factors, victim under thirteen years of age, contact with genitalia using the hand, no penetration—it was second degree sexual assault at best. Sentencing guidelines in the two-year range. It wasn't enough on its own, not after what she knew that man had done and how many victims were involved. But Mycroft's testimony linked the videos to Lindt, and that should help them nail him for a lot more.

"That is correct. So I didn't know—" He hesitated, then unlaced his fingers, reached out and paused the recorder. "You see, when Sherlock started taking violin lessons with Mr Lindt, I was away at school. I didn't find out about it until I returned home in June. At that point I convinced our mother to find him a different teacher, but I did not realize the extent of the violation. I wasn't even sure he had done anything untoward to Sherlock."

"Did you ever talk to Sherlock about what Mr Lindt had done to him?"

Mycroft gave a humourless laugh. "Sherlock would not have told me even if I had asked. That was outside of the nature of our relationship." Mycroft started the recorder again and sat back in his chair with his hands folded neatly on his lap. His knuckles had finally relaxed, but she could still see the indentations from his fingers.

"Did you ever tell your mother what happened?"

"No. I did not want to discuss what had happened. Of course, I did not know that there were other victims."

"All right, Mr Holmes. Thank you for your statement." Donovan shut the recorder off and tucked it back into her pocket.

"You are welcome. Are my brother and I free to go?"

"Just one more thing. I need to have a look at your hands," Donovan said, pulling out her phone. Mycroft regarded her skeptically.

"My hands?"

"Mr Lindt claimed he was assaulted. I need to gather evidence."

"Very well." He held out his hands, palms down. A slight but obvious tremor ran through them, and he watched them curiously.

"It's the aftereffects of adrenaline. It's normal."

"I am aware of the physiological response."

"Are you all right? Would you like something to drink?"

"No, thank you. I'm fine."

"Yeah. All right." Whatever you say, she finished silently, because no matter what he was playing at, he clearly was  _not_   _fine_. She quickly snapped several photos of his hands. No bruising on his knuckles, so he hadn't punched the old man. So either Sherlock was the assailant (likely) or Mycroft had assaulted him some other way. "Ok, I need to see your feet next. I'll need to take your shoes off."

He pressed his thumb and forefinger to his eyes and sighed. "Yes, all right." He started to bend down to untie his shoes, but she got there first. She untied his right shoe and eased it off, then his sock to find that his toes were purple and swollen. Damn, that looked like it must hurt, but he hadn't complained at all.

She snapped a couple of photos, then put the phone on the table and gently pressed her thumb down behind his big toe, feeling for broken bones. When she looked up at his face, he was staring straight ahead with a blank expression on his face. No emotion, no indication at all that he was in pain.

"I don't think it's broken. Would you like the station duty doctor to have a look?"

"No, thank you."

"Ok." She finished probing and put his sock back on, being careful not to jostle the injury. She marveled that he hadn't been limping, but of course he wouldn't. He wasn't the type to let on that he was hurt.

He tied his own shoe while she wrote a few notes on her notepad. When he was finished, he sat back in his chair and folded one leg over the other. His face was still a picture of complete calm and control.

"All right, Mr Holmes. Thank you for your statement. Given the circumstances, I will try to convince Mr Lindt not to press charges, but I can't make any guarantees."

"I understand that. Are we finished?"

"I'd like to talk to Sherlock, just for a minute."

"You recall our understanding."

"I won't force Sherlock to tell me anything," Donovan reassured him. Not that I could do that anyway, she added to herself. "But I would like to see what information he is willing to give."

"I cannot stop you from talking to him. And in fact, if he knew I was discouraging him from giving a statement, he would immediately become determined to do so, I'm afraid." He appeared to be about to say more, but suddenly stopped, pressed his lips together and stood. "I will be waiting outside. Please do not tell Sherlock I am waiting for him."

Don't tell him? "All right. You can sit with Howard."

"Howard?"

"We saw him on the way in. Remember—Purple hair?"

His lip curled up slightly in distaste. "Oh yes. Howard."

* * *

As soon as Donovan entered the room where Sherlock was waiting for her, she knew she had made a mistake in thinking she could get a statement out of him. He was pacing the room when she walked in, scowling and muttering to himself. If he noticed her at all, he showed no sign.

"Sherlock, sit down please. You're making me dizzy."

"Soo sorry. I forgot about your vertigo," he snipped back at her.

"Just—can you sit? Please?"

"Fine!" he huffed and dropped into the hard metal chair. Donovan had to suppress a smirk: with his black eye and swollen lip, along with the rumpled ill-fitting clothes, he looked like a kid playing dress-up. Of course the jumper had to be green, didn't it? At least it didn't have a gold crest on it.

"Why am I here?" His voice had a sharp edge to it, and it immediately put her on edge as well.

"What happened to your face?"

"It was an accident, and it has no bearing on this case. What do you want from me?"

"I need to know what happened."

"Tonight? Didn't  _Mycroft_  already tell you everything?"

"He gave me a statement, but I'm not talking about tonight."

He snorted. "If you think I'm going to bare my soul to you, you're insane."

"Then who will you talk to? Lestrade?"

Another snort. "Hardly. Anyway, judging by the newspapers, you already know everything. Although I am surprised at your choice of confidants. The Mail? Kitty Riley? Honestly."

"That wasn't—I didn't—" Donovan spluttered. She stopped and took a calming breath. "That wasn't me. I asked her not to print that article."

"I'm surprised you didn't give them my name."

"I wouldn't do that!" she shouted hoarsely.

Sherlock smirked and leaned back in his chair while Donovan tried to get her breathing back under control. Damn him for baiting her! And damn herself for always falling for it!

"Will charges be laid against Mycroft?" That little smirk was still in place.

"I—I don't know. I can try to convince Mr Lindt not to press charges."

"Pity. It would be satisfying to see him in the dock."

Donovan sat back in her chair and folded her arms. What a complete git. In fact, 'git' wasn't a strong enough word. 'Arsehole' suited him better. Mycroft's whole goal had been to protect Sherlock, and now here was Sherlock, ready to sell Mycroft up the river just for his own amusement. It made her want to blacken his other eye.

_Victim, remember?_  echoed Lestrade's voice in her head. Don't pick a fight. Stay calm. Don't let him rattle you. He was exactly like his brother, only they used opposite methods. Where Mycroft was ice, Sherlock was all fire, but it was still a mask. A self-protective ruse to keep people from looking too closely.

"What?" His smirk turned to a scowl under her scrutiny.

"I'm trying to remember you're damaged."

He sniffed disdainfully and sneered, "At least I didn't spend my childhood hiding from my alcoholic mother. Damaged indeed."

Donovan fought with herself for control. The only thing that was stopping her from leaping over the table and throttling him at this moment was the knowledge that he  _wanted_  her to. His whole strategy was to put her on the defensive. And it was working. With a supreme effort she kept her tongue and said nothing. She didn't trust herself to speak because she knew the first words out of her mouth would be to call him a freak, and then he would have won. Unconsciously she reached up to her throat and rubbed her thumb over the pendant on her necklace, an anxious habit that she had been unable to break.

Am I free to go?"

"Sherlock, please, just—"

"No. Absolutely not. Now either arrest me or let me go home."

Donovan shoved back her chair and stood. "Fine. You're not under arrest. Go on home."

He wrapped his (obviously borrowed) anorak around himself and headed out the door with slightly less drama than usual due to the lack of his long coat. By the time she reached the door, he was striding down the hall with Mycroft hurrying along behind. Sherlock's querulous voice carried back to her, "No, Fatso, I am not going back to your house. Leave me alone."

"At least come and get your things."

"What things?"

"Phone, wallet, coat. . ."

"Molly has them."

"No, she gave them to me."

"You wanker! You lied to me! I knew you were lying!"

And then they were out of sight around the corner. Mycroft's voice drifted back, placating but with a hint of smug superiority. "I thought it best to. . ."

"To what? Keep me prisoner?!"

The bickering voices faded out as the Holmes brothers moved out of earshot down the hall. With a deep sigh, Donovan shrugged her coat on and headed back to the parking garage. It was nearly two in the morning, but her unexpected night shift was far from over.

* * *

Author's note: Another twofer! I hope you enjoyed your bonus chapters. Next week I won't be able to post anything because I'll be out of town. Next chapter will be posted on Tuesday, March 8.


	13. Coming up empty

Wearily Donovan drove back through the rain to Lockyer Street. Lestrade had texted that he had the warrant in hand, and Lindt had been shipped off to hospital to have his ribs checked, so they had the run of the place to do the search.

As she was locking the door to Constable Stauffer's patrol car, she spotted a glint of light out of the corner of her eye. What was that? Not a camera flash; it was too subtle. She turned her head and saw it again, through the open window of a car across the street. Light reflected on glass—a camera lens, definitely. Shit. Shit shit shit SHIT!

The camera suddenly disappeared, then the engine sputtered to life and the car quickly roared off, too fast for her to catch the license plate in the semi-dark, but she knew already who it had to be. Kitty Riley, or someone doing legwork for her. How had she known where to find them? And how long had she been sitting there? Long enough to get a shot of Sherlock getting into the patrol car earlier? Oh, shit, she was in big trouble. Mycroft Holmes was going to have her murdered in her bed. In a fury, Donovan pulled her phone from her pocket, and dialed D.C. Fadil's number. She didn't care it was the middle of the night. She was going to give him a piece of her mind.

After the third ring Fadil finally answered, voice croaky from sleep. "'lo?"

"Abdul, why is Kitty Riley snooping around my crime scene?!" she hissed angrily.

"Wha?" He cleared his throat and tried again. "I don't. . . what crime scene?"

"You know what I'm talking about!"

"No, honestly, Sergeant Donovan, I don't know anything." He sounded wide awake and a bit panicky now. "I didn't—I barely know her. I only told her one thing last week. I haven't talked to her since, I swear!"

"You'd better not be lying to me."

"You won't tell the inspector, will you? I never meant any harm. I really thought she was just being friendly."

"That sort is never 'just being friendly', Abdul. You are lucky you still have a job." Donovan punched the end button and dropped the phone into her pocket. She still hadn't decided if she was going to rat him out to Lestrade. It depended on what happened in the next few hours. They would have to release the name of their suspect at some point, but she had really wanted to control how the story broke. And if Kitty Riley had gotten a recognizable photo of Sherlock, God only knew what she would do with it. Legally she wasn't allowed to release his name, but little things like  _legality_  and  _truth_  had never gotten in Kitty Riley's way before.

Donovan ducked under the crime scene tape, flipped Constable Stauffer her keys, and stomped down the hall to Lindt's flat, where the door stood open and white light flooded out into the corridor. The crime scene team must have their floodlights set up already. Outside of the doorway, she tucked her necklace inside her collar and paused to pull on protective gear—coverall, booties, head covering, gloves. The several minutes it took cramming her hair into the shower cap-like head covering only increased her irritation. By the time she got the last strand of curls inside, she was in a thoroughly foul temper. It didn't help that her last conversation with Sherlock was still rattling around in her head. Somehow he always managed to push her buttons, and she always reacted without thinking. It was more than him just being an arrogant arsehole. He was doing it on purpose, trying to get a rise out of her, just like the bully who had followed her around in year seven at school, taunting her with "Sally the Slag" and laughing at her furious reaction until she had bloodied his nose. It made Sally sort of wonder what would happen if she bloodied Sherlock's nose. Would he burst into tears and run away like the schoolyard bully had done? Unlikely. It was more likely that he would use it as ammo in future confrontations.

There were several more strands of crime scene tape strung up in the doorway to the flat (thanks, Constable McLoud!) that Donovan had to contort her body around, made more difficult by the slipperiness of the booties and fact that the protective suit was one-size-allegedly-fits-all, which meant it was miles too big for her petite frame. Phillip was in the sitting room with the cover off the sofa while he applied chemicals and swabs to the cushion. He was kneeling with his back to her and didn't look up when she walked in, so she slipped past and kept going without disturbing him. Things had been strained between them since the day Sherlock stepped off a roof and Phillip had torn himself apart from guilt. Now they mostly acted like polite strangers, and it was a bit wearing, hence her preference to avoid encounters with him as much as possible. She held Sherlock responsible for their breakup, and had been angry with him for months, but she couldn't say she was still too upset about it, because honestly she knew life was easier without all the intrigue of sneaking around behind Phillip's wife's back.

She found Lestrade in the back bedroom going through the closet. The doors of every cabinet and drawers on every chest were standing open in the bathroom and bedroom, and toiletries were sitting all over the floor: Towels, flannels, bog rolls, clothes, hair products, etc. It all looked innocuous.

"Hey, Guv," she greeted Lestrade, who grunted in reply. "Find anything interesting?"

"Expired box of condoms in a drawer in the bathroom," he said with his head still in the closet. "Wouldn't call that evidence, exactly. Anderson found some spots of dried blood on the sofa cushions."

"How about recording equipment or videotapes?"

"Nope, nothing of that sort yet. Still looking."

Donovan swallowed her disappointment and looked around the room. The covers were thrown back on the bed and there was an indentation in the pillow, but the pillowcase and sheets looked undisturbed. "I'll start on the bed," she said.

"Anything out of Sherlock and Mycroft?"

"Mycroft gave me a statement," she replied as she opened a bag to put the sheets in. "Sherlock basically told me to bugger off."

"Yeah, what did you expect? At least you got one of them."

"Yeah, I suppose." She carefully removed the sheet and slid it into the bag. "Oh, and boss? I think we've got a reporter sniffing around outside."

Lestrade made a noise that sounded an awful lot like a nasty swear. "I thought you took care of your leak."

"Yeah, so did I."

"Want me to have a go?"

"No, thanks. I've got it sorted. I've been assured it won't happen again."

He made a noncommittal grunt in reply. As she was writing out the label on the sealed bag of linens, Lestrade backed out of the closet empty-handed. Donovan finished her label and dropped the bag on the floor next to the bed.

"Anything?"

"Not a thing. This guy is clean as a whistle. What do you want to bet we won't find so much as a hair on those bedlinens?"

The rest of the search went about the same. Besides the few small spots of blood, Philip also found a single drop of semen on the sofa cushions under the cover, but they discovered no evidence of any recording equipment, videotapes, or photos of young boys anywhere in the flat. In fact, there were barely even any dust or smudges on any of the furniture, and the baseboards and carpets were completely free of hairs or other fibers.

"You know what this means?" Donovan said in frustration on their way out. "He knew we were coming. I bet he started cleaning house the day those videotapes went missing. He's had plenty of time to get rid of the evidence."

* * *

It took Sherlock over an hour to wear Mycroft down enough that he finally let him leave, and even then the ridiculous arse insisted on having Tim drive him home. Sherlock would have resisted further, but he realized it was his only chance of getting out of there tonight, and he really needed to get home to Baker Street to do a bit of house-keeping - well, make that mind-palace-keeping.

He checked his phone on the way home, and found five texts and three messages from John, two texts from Lestrade, three texts and a message from Molly, and one message from Donovan from the previous day (he deleted that one immediately without listening to it). He didn't reply to any of John's texts, because it was the middle of the night and he wouldn't get it until morning anyway. And if John did happen to hear the message alert now, it would wake him up and he would be irritable. He had learnt the hard way it was best to wait until at least half eight in the morning to phone or text John these days.

He also checked the major news websites for the story he knew was about to break. There had been no mistaking that glimpse of long ginger hair in the streetlight on the way out of Lindt's flat, and the reflection off the camera lens. As soon as he had seen it, he had scrunched down in the seat, but he knew by that time it had been too late. The few seconds he had spent dithering before he got into the patrol car had likely sealed his fate.

There was no nothing new on the story on any of the news outlets yet. A couple of news aggregators had picked up the original story from the Mail, but no update. It was just a matter of time until Kitty Riley got her information together and submitted her story. He wondered if she had recognized him, and if she had, if his name would be attached to the story as well and in what capacity.

When he got home, his first act was to search the flat for hidden cameras, and he wasn't surprised when he found one peeking out of the eye socket of the skull. He took it into the loo and attached it to inside of the bog so the lens was pointing into the bowl. Served Mycroft right to literally get pissed on.

Once the flat had been debugged, he sat in John's chair wearing his own comfortable pyjamas instead of Mycroft's unsuitable clothes, with his coat pulled on over his dressing gown to ward off the chill. A cup of rapidly cooling tea sat unheeded on the small round table next to him. Tucking his fingertips beneath his chin, he shoved thoughts of Kitty Riley and salacious news headlines aside. It was time to deal with this nonsense once and for all, before it interfered with his work. Shouldn't be too difficult. Obviously there was a hidden room in his mind palace; he just needed to find it and set it to rights. Tidy it up. Examine the contents and file them accordingly. Then lock the door and never go there again. Simple.

Taking a deep, cleansing breath, Sherlock tucked his fingertips under his chin, closed his eyes, and visualized the front door. It was hanging off its hinges.

Sherlock's eyes flew open. Why was the door off its hinges? No matter. It was in his mind. He could fix it. He closed his eyes again and visualized the door. Still off its hinges, and now he could see there was a large hole in it, like it had been kicked in. No. . . kicked open from the inside, based on the angle of the break.

He tried to make the door correct itself, but it remained hanging at an angle with the boards broken.  _Damaged_. Beyond the shattered door, he could see a bit of the front hallway, but it was dark inside. Foreboding. Not at all welcoming as it usually was.  _It's in my mind_ , he reminded himself sternly.  _I am in control. What could possibly hurt me inside my own mind?_  He forced himself to enter, slowly, heart pounding. One step. Two steps into the dark hallway. The lights didn't come on as he was anticipating.

Sherlock attempted to visualize a strong torch in his hand to light the way, but it turned into a small candle that only put out enough illumination to light the next step. Cautiously, hand out to feel the way, he proceeded another step, then another. Soon he passed the room that held his memories of family camping trips. That door remained securely locked, thankfully. He had no desire to relive those episodes. Who pays good money to spend a week living in the woods like the homeless?

While he was distracted by the camping room, he had rounded a corner and suddenly found himself in front of an unexpected door: blank gray metal, open just a crack. This was THE room, he knew, even though he couldn't remember ever having seen it there before.

Sherlock stood swaying in front of the door, candle held high. No light came out through the crack in the door, but he could hear the strains of violin—Mozart's violin concerto #5. His favourite piece, one that he played when he was sad to help himself feel better. His hand was on the doorhandle when suddenly he remembered Mr Lindt teaching it to him.  _Large hands on his guide him through the notes. Lindt's soft voice whispers in his ear, telling him how clever he is. He feels wet lips on his neck, then teeth graze his skin_. NO NO NO NO NO!

Sherlock's candle suddenly went out, leaving him in almost complete darkness. He dropped it with a curse and slammed the door shut. Then he took off running through the dark, navigating by memory: down the hall, around the corner, and up the stairs to where he knew Redbeard was waiting.

 


	14. Boundaries were made to be broken

 

* * *

Mycroft's housekeeper Elenor (well, Ms Dunphries to her face) met him at the door to his house, although he hadn't told her to. He hadn't told her anything, in fact, which meant he needed to have a chat with his driver Tim about boundaries. Later. Maybe tomorrow. Tonight he was too dead tired and mixed up to confront anyone about anything.

After he had let Sherlock go, too weary to fight him any longer (but ignoring his shouted "And LEAVE ME ALONE!"), he let Elenor bring him tea and his slippers, and ignored her concerned expression. She obviously knew something was up, but he wasn't about to fill her in on the details of such an embarrassing event. After he had his tea, he pointedly showed her the door and said "Goodnight, Ms Dunphries" in a tone she was very familiar with, and she went without a fuss.

He decided to wait until the next morning to call his mother, even though he knew it was currently late evening in Tobago, and if he didn't make the call now, he would have to wait until at least nine in the morning Tobago time. Mummy had always been a late riser, and this wasn't exactly the sort of surprise to drop on her first thing in the morning. He rationalized it by telling himself that Mummy and Dad would surely be out dancing now and wouldn't hear their phones anyway. And the fact that it would give him several more hours to decide exactly what to say to her was an added bonus.

So he was sound asleep when the phone rang, after five a.m., and he fumbled it off the nightstand and onto the floor before he had completely woken up. When the ringing stopped, he immediately fell back into the disturbing dream he had been having, where Sherlock was screaming for help but Mycroft couldn't find him because he was too busy drowning in freezing water.

When the phone rang for a second time, he was instantly alert. A single call may have been something insignificant like a coup in an unaligned country, or a minor operative having misplaced his keys. A second call meant emergency. He felt around on the floor until he found his mobile, by which time he had recognized his mother's ring: Mozart's The Magic Flute, which was her favorite composition due to its mathematical symbolism. He cleared his throat before answering, and tried out his voice to make sure it was working properly. He knew, of course, why she was calling. Bad news always traveled fast.

"Hello, Mother."

"Mycroft! I've just got a call from Uncle Rudy."

"Oh? What did he say?" he asked guardedly.

"That violin teacher you both had—Rudy said they had his name and photo in the paper being arrested for-for paedophilia. And there was a photo of Sherlock too! Oh, Mycroft, did he - What did he do?"

Mycroft was startled. They had released Lindt's name and photo? And Sherlock's photo? He hated to be caught off-guard. He prided himself on always knowing everything before anyone else did, especially his often-clueless mother. "I haven't seen the news report—"

"But you know what I'm talking about, don't you? Mykie, why didn't you tell me?"

Mycroft was flustered, which was so far outside his norm that he didn't even know what to do with it. He had expected to have several hours in which to consider how to tell his mother, and now, half-asleep, he was having difficulty thinking on his feet. He stammered out the first thing that came to mind, which happened to be the truth. "I was embarrassed. I didn't want anyone to know about it."

"What did he do to you, love?"

"Mother, please. It's hardly worth mentioning. It was just—"

"Oh, and Sherlock! You only went for a short while, but he had lessons with that man for months. Oh, my poor boy!" his mother cried.

"Honestly, Mother, he's-he's fine."

"Where is he now? Is he there with you?"

"No, he went home."

"You let him go home ALONE?! I trusted you to take care of your brother! What kind of unfeeling monster are you?! You may need to keep a stiff upper lip for the nation, but by God you can look after your little brother when he needs you!"

"Mother—"

"Do you know what that horrible man did to him? Don't you lie to me. I know you lie to me sometimes."

"I don't know all the details yet. I only just—."

"My poor Sherlock! You should have protected your brother! If you had told us, we would never have sent him to that awful man. Mycroft, this is all your fault!"

"But—but Mother, I didn't know—I did the best I could."

"No, you didn't. This is on you, Mykie. You're to blame for your brother getting hurt."

Mycroft pinched the bridge of his nose and tried to get his scattered thoughts together so he could formulate some sort of defense. The best option he could come up with at the moment was to buy time. "Mother, please, I've had a long night. We can talk when you get back in country."

"Oh, you can bet we'll talk later. Your father is looking for a flight for us tonight." And then she rang off without saying goodbye.

As Mycroft sat staring at the blank phone, he considered that his mother was right; it  _was_  his fault. He had had an obligation to protect Sherlock, as well as all of those other boys, and he had failed miserably. A knot of apprehension hardened and settled in the pit of his stomach. He was a successful adult, with responsibilities and an important job. People depended on him. And yet somehow, with just the right words from his mother, he had reverted to the anxious child he had been: desperate to please and somehow always  _always_  coming up short.

* * *

Friday morning Donovan sat at her kitchen table eating a soggy bowl of corn flakes, not really listening to the news which was playing quietly in the corner, when a news presenter's shrill voice caught her ear. "Sherlock Holmes was on the case last night, helping to bring in a suspected Paedophile Violin Instructor. . . "

She almost choked on her corn flakes. SHIT! She stood up and moved closer to the telly, squinting at the screen where they were showing a photo of what looked like Sherlock standing outside her patrol car on the way out of Lindt's flat. It was a bit blurry, but Sherlock's hair was unmistakable. The woman continued with the details of Lindt's arrest, along with an out-of-date photo of Lindt apparently taken from the website of a regional symphony orchestra.

When that station went on to another story, Donovan switched over to Channel 4 News just in time to see the headline flash across the screen **"Child Rapist Rainer Lindt: How much did the Met know and when did they know it?"** She quickly flipped to ITN and spotted a scroll along the bottom of the screen **: "How long did NSY hide news of paedophile violin instructor? Could child sex assaults have been prevented? We'll find out in our next hour of news."**  (Donovan wanted to throw something at the telly at this headline).

When by nine in the morning, only a few hours after the story broke, Sky News was already doing promos for an upcoming "panel of experts" (aka a bunch of blowhards, in Donovan's opinion), Donovan had had enough. She switched off the telly, dumped her cereal in the rubbish bin, and grabbed her coat. She was out for blood. Specifically Lindt's blood. And she knew just where to find him.


	15. Telling vs telling everything, take 1

John was feeding Alice her breakfast of mashed bananas mixed with disgusting smelling rice cereal when he suddenly remembered Sherlock had never called or texted him back yesterday. He knew from Mycroft's call, and also Sherlock's apparent text from Mycroft's phone, that he was all right, of course. Well, not lying dead in an alleyway, at least. John shook his head as he realized that lately whenever he hadn't seen or heard from Sherlock in a while, his thoughts always immediately went to the fear that perhaps he was dead. So what did that mean about their relationship? More like parent and child than friends, that's what, he thought ruefully. Mary wasn't the only one treating Sherlock like an overgrown toddler.

While he scooped up a spoonful of mashed goop with his left hand and waved it hopefully toward Alice's mouth, he pulled out his phone with his right and dialed Sherlock's number. He was unlikely to answer, John knew, but at least he could leave him another message asking him to call. Maybe he'd get the hint at some point.

So he was surprised when Sherlock answered on the second ring, in a voice that sounded a bit scratchy, but mostly awake. "Ah, John, I was just about to text you."

"Text me? What about phone me? I've left you three messages. Why didn't you phone me back yesterday?"

"Well, it was the middle of the night before I got my phone back. I didn't suppose you'd want to be woken up at half three in the morning."

"You got your phone back in the middle of the night? Mycroft didn't give it to you right away?"

"Obviously not. I've just told you." Sherlock's voice sounded defensive now, so John reigned in his irritation and tried to take a neutral tack.

"All right, I understand. I was worried about you. Are you all right?"

"I'm fine. I just—" but John missed the rest of what Sherlock was about to say because Alice started screeching impatiently for her next bite. When it was not supplied immediately, she smacked her cereal-covered hands on the tray and wailed.

"Sorry, Sherlock, just a minute." John loaded up another bite and shoved it into Alice's mouth, whereupon she immediately spat most of it out again. "All right, love, I don't know what you want then!"

"It sounds like you're. . . busy."

"No, just hang on. I just have to—" he tucked the phone under his chin, grabbed one of Alice's flailing hands and attempted to wipe the worst of the chunks of cereal and bananas off, but succeeded only in smearing it around. At least the wailing had mostly stopped. "Don't hang up. I want to know what's going on."

"It's not important. There's—um—nothing going on. I'm fine."

"That's not what Molly said yesterday. You owe her an apology, by the way." John dropped one of Mary's homemade rusks* onto the highchair tray and stepped back. His hands were nearly as covered in mashed bananas as Alice's were. The phone was falling out from its place under his chin, but his hands were too messy to grab it, so he adjusted his shoulder and moved to the sink to wash his hands.

"I don't see why. Molly overreacted."

"No, she didn't. Her reaction was perfectly reasonable. You were the one who was out of line."

"But she—" But the rest of whatever Sherlock had to say was lost because Alice started shrieking again. When John looked back at her, he discovered that she had flung the rusk onto the floor and was fisting her tiny, filthy hands into her hair, which was stiff with goo.

"Oh, Alice!" he exclaimed. How did someone so small create such chaos? "Sherlock, I'm sorry. You know I'm here for you, right? You can tell me anything."

There was a slight hesitation before Sherlock answered. "Yes, I know that."

It was obvious breakfast was over and it was now bathtime. John tucked the phone under his chin again and removed the highchair tray one-handed while holding a squirming Alice into the seat with the other hand. "I really do want to know what's happening."

He scooped Alice up out of the seat and she immediately grabbed the sides of his head and attempted to give him a slimy open-mouthed kiss on the nose, covering his face and hair with sticky goo. "We can talk later, yeah? Alice is covered in cereal and bananas and now it's in my hair as well.

"There's no need. I'm fine."

"Sherlock. . . " John set Alice down on the floor of the bathroom and she immediately started crawling away, leaving a trail of sticky, slimy handprints across the floor. "Come back here!"

"I haven't gone anywhere."

"No, I didn't mean you, Sherlock." He caught Alice by the back of her sleepsuit and reeled her in one-handed while turning on the water in the bath. "Don't do that." There was silence on the other end of the line. "Sherlock?"

"What?"

"I said don't do that."

"Oh, I thought you were talking to Alice. Don't do what?"

"That thing you do."

"What. . .  _thing_  I do?"

"The thing where you pretend to be fine when you're not. I know the truth." Alice, who was still struggling to get away, started to howl, and John shouted over her. "Alice and I are coming by in a bit—No, you don't get to say no—Alice can hang out with Mrs Hudson while we chat."

"Alice could come with you. I don't mind."

"Are you sure? It'll be much easier for us to talk without her crawling all over your flat finding gruesome ways to kill herself."

"I haven't seen her in nearly a week, John," Sherlock said in a serious voice. "Bring her."

"All right then. Oh, and call Molly! She's worried about you."

* * *

Later that morning, John packed Alice in the front pack and took a cab to Baker Street. He wasn't coming empty-handed: he had two of Mary's famous jam tarts wrapped in aluminium in the side pocket of the nappy bag. Every time Sherlock came to their flat, his first stop was always their refrigerator to check for jam tarts. Mary claimed to find it quite endearing (and kept the fridge stocked accordingly), while John decried it as yet another example of Sherlock being treated as a spoilt child.

He heard the violin as soon as he entered the door to 221. Alice, who loved the violin more than life itself, started kicking him in the side in excitement. "Yes, love, that's Sherlock," John said distractedly. He didn't recognize the piece, but something about the key and tempo changes made the music sound bright on the surface, with sad undertones, sort of melancholy. The sorrowful music swelled and followed him as he climbed the stairs.

He knew a knock would be futile, so after a moment's hesitation, he opened the door to find Sherlock standing at the window facing away from him, wearing his coat over his pyjamas. He didn't turn, although he must have known John was there because the music changed, became the waltz Sherlock had written for his and Mary's wedding.

John looked around the flat, which had been tidied up a little, obviously in honor of Alice's visit. John could still spot at least ten ways she could wreak havoc if she weren't carefully supervised, but he supposed he could give Sherlock credit for trying. The wall above the sofa was covered with a huge map of London, which hadn't been there the last time John had been at the flat. Photos were pinned to it in various places, with a cluster centered around a section of the Newham borough. All the photos seemed to be of one man: hulking, bald, with a crooked nose and deep-set, brooding eyes.

He realized that the music had stopped, although Sherlock hadn't turned around yet. "Hey, Sherlock," he greeted him, keeping his tone light. Sherlock's response was to turn without looking at John, set the violin on the side table, and flop into his usual chair. John was amused to see the collar of his dressing gown sticking out from under his coat.

As soon as John removed Alice from the front pack, she immediately started trying to escape his arms to get to Sherlock, but John wrangled her back, patting her on the back to fend off her escalating noises of discontent at the situation. Ordinarily Sherlock would have held out his arms immediately in a silent demand for John to hand the baby over, but this time he stayed slumped in the chair, eyes fixed on the far wall.

John frowned as he looked Sherlock up and down: coat pulled tightly about himself even though the flat was warm, shoulders down, face twisted into a scowl, hair uncombed. John wasn't surprised that his eye was blackened, as Molly had told him about that, but he was curious as to how he had obtained the swollen lip that completed the look.

"All right?" he asked. That would usually draw an indignant reaction from Sherlock, something along the lines of "Of course I'm all right." But all he did was shrug, which to John spoke volumes.

"Right. Well, I've brought you something." He shifted Alice to his hip and pulled the tarts from the nappy bag, held them out of her reach as he folded back the foil, and set the package on the side table next to the violin, expecting that Sherlock would pounce as soon as he saw them. Sherlock glanced over at the tarts, but his hands stayed in his lap, where he was picking at the sleeve of his coat. After a few seconds, he appeared to remember his manners and said "Please express my gratitude to Mary."

John's lip twitched at the odd wording. "All right, I'll do that." He looked Sherlock over again and spotted the bandages wound around his feet, peeking out below the hem of his pyjama bottoms.

"Did you hurt your feet too?"

"They're fine."

"Molly said you ran out of her house without your shoes. Is that what happened to them?"

Sherlock shrugged. "It's not important. They're fine."

"And what happened to your mouth?"

"I told you, it's fine. It was an accident."

"Sherlock, what's going on?"

"Who says there's anything going on?"

"Well, you haven't bathed and you're hiding behind your coat, for one. . ."

"I'm not hiding. I'm cold."

"Doesn't seem cold in here to me," John said. Sherlock didn't answer that, so he continued. "Sherlock, you ran out of Molly's flat saying vampires were chasing you. Obviously there's something wrong. I'd like to know what it is."

"My brother didn't speak to you?"

"No, not a word."

"Oh."

John pulled over a footstool in front of Sherlock's chair and sat on it with Alice on his lap, facing Sherlock who still hadn't made eye contact. "I'd like to know what happened yesterday. Molly said you destroyed her teddy bear. She thought you were having a flashback or something."

"Hmm. . . have you seen the news today?"

John thought back. He had spent the morning covered in rice cereal with bananas, bathwater, snot, spit-up, and baby poop. No one had warned him parenting would involve quite so many disgusting bodily fluids. So no, he hadn't had a chance to sit and read the paper. "No, I was a bit busy with Alice." The subject of his comment squirmed on his lap in another futile attempt to get to Sherlock, but John held her back, bouncing her on his knee soothingly.

Sherlock picked up his phone off the side table and tapped the screen a few times, then held it out to John, who took it slowly. He wasn't sure yet what today's news had to do with Sherlock's freakout yesterday. Had he murdered someone overnight? Alice tried to grab the phone from his hand, gummy mouth open, so John pulled it up to the side, out of her reach. As he focused on the screen, he felt the baby lifted off his lap, then heard her happy gurgle.

Typically at this point Sherlock would start babbling nonsense at Alice in baby talk ("It's called Child-directed speech. It's good for her," Sherlock had told John seriously when John had goggled at him in surprise the first time he had done it), and then Alice would laugh until she spit up all over him. But this time the initial happy gurgle was followed by silence. John glanced up to see Alice chewing contentedly on the tie to Sherlock's dressing gown while Sherlock stroked her downy hair and stared blankly at the wall.

With a frown, John returned his attention to the phone. On the screen was an article from the Daily Mail, with the headline in huge bold letters,  **POLICE MAKE ARREST IN PAEDOPHILE VIOLIN INSTRUCTOR CASE**. What the actual hell?

Under the headline was a blurry photo, of a police cruiser in the semi-dark, with an indistinct figure of a man with curly dark hair standing beside it. His face was just a white blob, but of course John knew right away who it was. Another head was visible in the back of the patrol car, facing away. John had no idea who that was. The driver of the car was turned away from the camera too, but John recognized her by her hair as well. It could only be Donovan. The caption read, " _Sherlock Holmes, the renowned private detective, apparently assisted police in the capture last night of Rainer Lindt, a violin instructor arrested on suspicion of child sex assaults dating back to the 1970s._ " Below the photo was a smaller one, an outdated headshot of a man with slicked-back dark hair and thick black-framed glasses.

With a sick feeling gathering in the pit of his stomach, John hurriedly scanned the first paragraph of the article.  _Police made an arrest early this morning in the case of the paedophile violin instructor. Videotapes featuring child sex assaults had been mailed to law enforcement over a week ago, and police, with the help of Sherlock Holmes, determined tonight that the alleged perpetrator was this man, Rainer Lindt, formerly a member of the London Symphony Orchestra, who had been a local violin instructor in the Southwark neighborhood in the 1970s through the 1990s. . ._

The article continued, but John had read enough to get the idea. He put down the phone and looked up at Sherlock. Alice had snuggled back into his shoulder and he was absently brushing his thumb over her arm just below her elbow, staring into space, expressionless. "This was your violin instructor?"

"Excellent deduction, Dr Watson," Sherlock said drily.

So many questions sprang to John's mind that he couldn't decide which one to ask first. Finally he blurted out, "How old were you?"

"Six, I think. That's when I started at that school."

The sick feeling in John's gut intensified and tried to crawl up his throat. "And you never. . . told anyone?"

"I didn't remember, until Molly shoved that stupid bear in my face."

"The bear?"

"He had that same bear sitting on his telly. It was always  _watching_. I didn't know it had a camera in it."

"But you didn't remember?"

"No. I deleted it."

"Suppressed it," John corrected. "It's called dissociation."

"I didn't  _suppress_  it, John. I  _deleted_  it."

"There's no shame in dissociation. It's not exactly common, but it can be a normal way of dealing with the pain of traumatic childhood memories."

"I'm not  _traumatized_. I wasn't in pain, I just chose not to remember, so I deleted it."

"But now you've remembered? Doesn't that indicate the memories weren't actually deleted?"

"Hm, apparently not as completely as I thought. It was that stupid bear."

"What happened when you saw the bear?"

"I remembered staring at it the whole time. And I could feel—" Sherlock suddenly broke off, eyes on the wall over John's shoulder.

John waited for several seconds for Sherlock to continue, but Sherlock just continued to stare at the wall, with his lips pressed together and his eyes distant. "Could feel what?" he prompted finally.

Sherlock blinked and focused his gaze back on John. "It brought back the memories, that's all." He flipped his hand dismissively. "It surprised me."

"That sounds awful. I'm sorry that happened to you," John said carefully, searching for the right words to get past the emotional walls that Sherlock was throwing up.

"I don't need your sympathy, John. It's a distraction. I need to focus."

"Focus on what?"

"On the McClinchy homicide case. I've been tracking Popovic's movements and I have his location narrowed down to the Newham Borough."

Sherlock set Alice down on the floor, where she immediately began to crawl toward the most dangerous thing in the room, a rack of test tubes half-full of mysterious liquids which stood next to the coffee table. John scooped her up as Sherlock vaulted himself out of his chair, stepped around John and over the coffee table, and stood on the sofa facing the London map. "See, here? He's walking west on Green Street at four in the morning, most likely heading home after a long night's work murdering." There was a hint of savage glee in Sherlock's voice.

John stared at Sherlock's back as he gestured at the photos on the map. The man seemed supremely unaffected by something John knew had to have been incredibly traumatic. And the fact that Sherlock had suppressed it (whatever what he may call it, that's what it was) meant that he had never processed it. John knew Sherlock's brain didn't work the same way as everyone else's, but he also knew that Sherlock wasn't as impervious to sentiment as he pretended to be (or maybe— _wished_  he was?).

"John, come here and look at this. I need a sounding board." Sherlock had taken down one of the photos and was examining it with his nose nearly pressed to the paper.

"Yeah, all right. I'm coming."

* * *

*A rusk is a piece of hard, twice-baked bread, often used as a teething biscuit.


	16. Interview with a Vampire

Friday at 10 am sharp, Donovan met Lestrade outside of Lindt's hospital room at St. Bart's. Lestrade was dressed in a fresh suit, but his face showed his exhaustion the same as she knew hers did. She was sure he hadn't slept more than a couple of hours the previous night.

"Thanks for doing this interview with me," she said by way of greeting, holding out the cup of hospital vending machine coffee she had brought him to show her appreciation. "You look like shit."

"Yeah, well, so do you." He took the coffee and held it up in a silent toast.

Donovan lifted her cup as well. "To the Holmes brothers for keeping us up all night."

"To the Holmes brothers for catching us a serial paedophile."

"That too." Donovan took a gulp of her coffee, then immediately pulled the cup back and wiped her mouth. "Shit, that's hot."

Lestrade chuckled at her, then his smile dropped. He gestured for her to follow him a little way down the hall, away from the closed door to Lindt's hospital room. "What's our plan of attack here?"

"Get him to confess."

"How do you plan to do that?"

"I was hoping you had an idea."

"Well. . ." Lestrade took a sip of coffee while he contemplated that. "The video evidence is pretty strong. The offense is unmistakeable. On the other hand, you said you could never see his whole face, and he's aged so much as to be nearly unrecognizable anyway. We found no evidence in his flat to indicate he ever had recording equipment. Our only forensic evidence hasn't come back from the lab yet."

"We've got a couple of witnesses."

"As of right now you've got one witness. What are the chances he'll actually take the stand when the time comes."

"I'd say. . . slim, but Lindt doesn't know that."

"Right. So we stick to the story that our witnesses identified him as the man who assaulted them, and that we can corroborate that with the videos. No matter what he says, he knows why Sherlock and Mycroft broke into his flat last night. We need to make him believe we can prove it."

"Yeah, ok. It's worth a shot."

"Ready?"

"Yeah," Donovan said with more conviction than she felt. She took a last sip of her coffee and tossed the rest in the rubbish bin.

Lestrade's cup hit the bin as well. "That stuff tasted like shit."

"How would you know? Been eating a lot of shit lately?"

"Funny, Donovan. Real funny."

When they entered the hospital room, they found Lindt propped up in bed, handcuffed to the rail, talking with a man Donovan immediately recognized—Gabriel Pomeroy for the defence: mid-forties, tall and imposing with sleek black hair, impeccably dressed in a navy blue suit and matching tie. Ugh. Donovan stopped so abruptly that Lestrade bumped into her back.

Lestrade caught her elbow and gave her a questioning look. Donovan realized he didn't know that she had dated Pomeroy off and on for almost a year several years previous, mostly off, and she would be happiest if she never had to see him again. Not that he was sleazy or a drunk, or really  _anything_  she could pin down. It was just that she wasn't quite  _herself_  when he was around. His methods of control were so subtle that she found herself wondering if she were going crazy, and she considered herself well quit of him. And it was the same in court: with his sincere-looking smile and soft voice, he quickly had juries eating out of his hand.

When he heard their footsteps, Pomeroy turned around, and his face arranged itself into a slightly oilier version of his usual convincing smile.

"Ah, Sergeant Donovan and Inspector Lestrade. Always a pleasure."

"Have you been retained by Mr Lindt then?" Donovan asked abruptly.  _That smile won't work on me, buster._

Pomeroy's smile vanished. "Indeed I have. You weren't planning to interview my client without an attorney present, I hope."

"We didn't know he had retained one."

"Ah. Well, he has. So here we are."

"Well, then, counselor, we'd like to interview your client."

"I'm afraid that's not on at the moment. My client will not be answering any questions today. I do, however, have some questions for you."

"So is it your contention that you are not guilty, then?" Donovan said around Pomeroy to Lindt, who was looking at her quite like a squirrel caught in the headlights.

"Don't answer that," Pomeroy said mildly. "Sergeant Donovan, you will speak to me, please."

"Of course. Then you are saying that  _your client_  didn't videotape himself raping a bunch of little boys?" She was trying, but failing, to keep the disgust out of her voice. Pomeroy's face remained neutral, as if they were discussing the weather. It was the same expression he had given her when she had exploded at him for trying to take credit for her promotion to sergeant.  _See what a big deal you're making over nothing?_

"I didn't hurt—" Lindt started, but Pomeroy cut him off.

"What evidence do the police have against my client?" he asked, holding up a hand to silence Lindt.

"Thirty-two videotapes, showing your client sexually assaulting boys as young as six years of age."

"How did you obtain these videotapes?" Pomeroy asked smoothly, without hesitation.

"They were sent to us anonymously by a man who claimed to have stolen them from Mr Lindt's flat."

"Anonymously? Do you know who this burglar is?"

Donovan cut her eyes to Lestrade, who answered for her. "Andrew Gilbert. Known housebreaker. We've got him in lockup."

"Andrew Gilbert? Why does that name sound familiar, Sally?"

"Oh, erm - He's been in the nick before."

"Right. I think I remember him. And did he mention my client by name?"

"Well—no. We discovered his identity later."

"How exactly?"

"He was identified."

Pomeroy folded his arms and leaned forward slightly. "By  _whom_?" Donovan exchanged an uncomfortable glance with Lestrade. "I shouldn't have to remind you that my client has a right to be presented with the evidence against him," Pomeroy continued, looking back and forth between the two of them.

"A victim came forward and identified Mr Lindt as his assailant," Donovan said reluctantly.

"I see. When will I be able to see this witness's statement?"

"I'll have a copy sent over to your office. Now will you please allow us to ask your client a few questions?"

"Sergeant Donovan, my client had the sanctity of his home violated and was assaulted in the middle of the night. When the police arrived, he found himself in handcuffs instead of the man who assaulted him. He is understandably quite exhausted and confused, not to mention in a great deal of pain. This conversation is over."

"Fine," Donovan said, trying to keep the irritation out of her voice. "We'll let you know when the arraignment is. I'm meeting with the crown advisor later today and we'll try to schedule it for tomorrow afternoon. In the meantime, your client will stay here, or if he is ready to be released from hospital, he will be sent to central lockup."

"Very well. My client needs time to recover from his injuries. I assume you have his assailant in lockup?"

"No, he was released."

"And if my client decides to press charges?"

"We can discuss that when he gives his confession," Lestrade said firmly.

"There will not be a confession, Inspector; you know that. My client didn't do what you are alleging, plain and simple."

Donovan was sure that Pomeroy wouldn't be saying that if he had seen what she had seen on those tapes, but she kept that to herself for the moment. "He can tell us that himself when we get his statement," she said. "When will he be available for questioning?" Even before she said it, she already knew the answer: never. Gabriel Pomeroy was famous for not allowing his clients to answer any questions. He handed the police a prepared statement, and then he did all the talking for them, and boy could he weave a compelling argument for a jury, all while making sure his good side was toward the chalk artist in the front row.

"I will be in touch." With that, Pomeroy pointedly turned his back on them. Dismissed. How did that man still manage to make her feel like a schoolgirl? Donovan felt the heat rising in her face. She stared at Pomeroy's back, trying to think of what to say to even the field. Somehow he always managed to have all the power, and even after six years, she still couldn't figure out how to win.

She felt Lestrade's hand on her arm, gentle but firm, steering her out the door into the hallway, where she sagged against the wall.

"Well, that could have gone better," Lestrade muttered. "What was up with you and Pomeroy?"

"I dated him for a while, but that's a long time ago now."

"So it's not going to interfere with your work?"

"No, boss, I swear. It was ages ago."

He fixed her with a skeptical look. "C'mon. I'll get you a real cup of coffee." He beckoned to her, and she followed him down the corridor. "I can't believe Gabriel Pomeroy agreed to represent that piece of shit."

"Oh, I can. Just his type."

"He can't honestly believe he's innocent."

"I don't know if he does or not, but it doesn't matter. He'll do anything for the publicity. He's preparing his usual 'my client is really the victim here' routine. By the time he gets done with the jury, he'll have them believing that Mycroft Holmes sexually assaulted Lindt, not the other way round." Donovan suddenly stopped in the hallway and put her hand to her head. "Oh, God."

"What?"

"I have to meet with the Crown Advisor today."

"Yeah, to prepare for the arraignment. So?"

"It's Tracey Sorrell.* She scares me. You remember what happened with Moriarty's trial. She was out for blood after Sherlock made her look like a fool." Donovan whinged. "Boss, you've got to come with me."

"She scares  _you_?" Lestrade chuckled and shook his head. "How do you think _I_  feel? She still hasn't forgiven me."

"What Sherlock did was hardly your fault. Anyway, she has to listen to you."

"She doesn't think so. This is your case, Sally."

"Boss, please? Will you come?"

"You can do it. I have faith in you. Just keep Sherlock's name out of it. It would be best if we can do this without his statement."

"Good plan. Can you imagine what she'd do if she found out he was one of the victims? I don't think she'll ever agree to use him as a witness again."

* * *

Tracey Sorrell came to NSY that afternoon to review the evidence ahead of the arraignment. Donovan checked her files three times before the meeting, making sure all the photographs and her notes were in order, reviewing Mycroft Holmes' statement, examining the preliminary forensics report for the typographical errors that Phillip was famous for.

Now she sat silently across the conference table and waited while Sorrell looked everything over, her expression never changing. Ever since Sorrell had been demoted over the Moriarty trial, Donovan knew she had been looking for a case to get herself back in the good graces of the Crown Prosecutor's office. She had to be excited to catch this case, but her face gave no sign.

"Well, what do you think?" Donovan finally prompted.

"How many videotapes?"

"Thirty-two," she answered promptly. "Dates ranging from 1977 to 1992, according to the labels."

"Did you find a hidden camera or any connection to the videotapes in his flat?"

"No, but he had plenty of time to get rid of evidence after the tapes were nicked."

"And he was not recognizable in the tapes?"

"I recognized him, but it would take some effort to convince a jury of it. He was very clever at keeping his full face out of the shot."

"He's never been arrested or under suspicion before?"

"No, Ma'am."

Sorrell took a moment to page through the documents until she found the notes from their attempted interview with Lindt. "So he was not willing to confess?"

"No. His solicitor was with him and wouldn't let him say a word to us. I doubt we'll get a guilty plea."

More flipping through papers. "I see one witness statement here. Any others?"

"N—no, no others have come forward yet." Donovan attempted to act casual, hoping that Sorrell wouldn't look too closely at the name on the witness statement, but the hope was in vain. Sorrell scanned the page a second time, then looked up at Donovan with her eyebrows raised.

"Holmes?" She queried.

"Erm, yes. Mycroft Holmes. He is willing to testify that he is the boy in the first video."

"I see. Any relation to. . ."

Donovan bit her lip. "He's Sherlock's older brother."

"Ah, yes, I remember him." Sorrell's lip curled upward with distaste. She looked over the page again, a little more closely this time. "His statement wouldn't fit the definition of rape."

"No, but it connects Lindt to the tapes, and as you can see from my notes. . ." Donovan reached over and pulled the appropriate page from the file ". . . the charge of first degree sexual assault of a minor under thirteen definitely applies in some of the other cases."

"Have you watched all of the tapes?"

"No, not all of them. Not yet. They're rather hard to watch."

"Hmm. . ." Sorrell said, eyes on Donovan's notes. "Well, we should be able to meet the full code test for an indictment with the videotapes and physical evidence found at his flat. Any idea when the DNA results for the trace evidence on the sofa will be back?"

"Looks like at least a week. We've put a rush on it, but the lab is backlogged as usual."

"Ok, we'll deal with that later then. I think we're ready for the arraignment this afternoon."

* * *

*Tracey Sorrell is the prosecuting Barrister for Moriarty's trial who interviewed Sherlock in court during The Reichenbach Fall, when he went off on one of his deductions and got himself tossed in jail for contempt of court.

 


	17. Fie in the mind palace

After John left, Sherlock spent the rest of the afternoon attempting to make sense of the pattern of sightings of Miroslav Popovic, trying to deduce where he might be staying. It had to be somewhere in the Newham Borough, because here he was walking down Green Street with a coffee in his hand, and here on Cromwell Road carrying a bag of shopping from Tesco (apparently even hitmen needed jam and tea). But he couldn't quite see it, couldn't quite get the pieces to fall together. His task was made more difficult by the incomprehensible reluctance he felt to enter his mind palace to search for locations that fit the criteria.

It was also difficult to concentrate because his mind felt clouded and sluggish, and it didn't help that his phone kept buzzing and beeping with messages and texts. Stupid Mycroft! Of course he wasn't planning to answer the phone, so why did the idiot keep calling him? It was a distraction, and he couldn't stand distractions when he was trying to work.

He picked up the phone and quickly flicked through the messages. Three calls and even a text from his mother (WL U CALL ME PLS?!) (Ha! Not a chance!), four calls and two texts from Mycroft (Please call Mother), a call and four texts from Molly (all variations on asking him to please call and tell her what was going on). It was annoying.

Turning the phone face-down on the table, he tried again to concentrate. He kept going over the same information again and again, but no new patterns emerged. He was frustrated and confused, which was a very bad combination. It was a combination that usually led to him throwing things, especially breakable things. His gaze fell on his violin, still lying on the side table where he had abandoned it when John showed up. Should probably put that away so I don't accidentally throw it against a wall, he thought.

He picked up the instrument carefully and packed it away. After he had snapped the case shut and tucked it in a corner, he went back to the map. There had to be some detail he was missing, some clue in the photos, but what?

As he leaned in, nose practically touching the photo of Popovic carrying a coffee, he noticed something—parts of a couple of letters were visible on the cup, but he couldn't tell what they were.

Sherlock pulled his pocket magnifier out of the pocket of his coat. Sliding it open, he examined the coffee cup more carefully. It was difficult to see because part of the word was obscured by Popovic's hand. He could make out the letters "affei. . ." and on the other side of Popovic's finger ". . .ow".

The first word was obviously Caffeine or a variation thereof, but what was the other word? While he was trying different letter combinations, Sherlock's gaze shifted from the photo to the magnifier in his hand, and his mind suddenly jumped the rails.

_A long-fingered hand holds out a package wrapped in bright paper. "I got you something." Sherlock takes the package in his small hands and rips off the paper to discover a rectangular block of black plastic._

" _What is it?"_

" _Look at this." The man's arms go around him from behind, hands over his hands. He slides the block open to reveal a semi- transparent bubble. "It's for examining things, like a detective."_

_The man's hands show him how to look through the bubble and everything is bigger and clearer. "Do you like it?"_

" _Yes, very much."_

_The hands turn him around. A finger slides under his chin and tips it up. "I love you Sherlock." Then wet lips press to his._

Sherlock found himself sitting on the floor, gasping. The magnifier was still clutched in his hand, and he stared at it wide-eyed. He had never thought about where it had come from, he just had always had it. He had spent hours playing with it when he was a child, examining everything: bugs, the carpet, hair, his hands, his mother's hands, grass. It was familiar, an old friend, but now it suddenly repelled him. With a cry, he flung it hard away from himself, then immediately regretted it.  _Don't break!_

The magnifier bounced, skidded across the floor, and ricocheted off the wall, and he scrambled after it, grabbed it up again from where it had landed half under John's chair. The corner was chipped, but it wasn't broken. As he carefully slid it closed, he suddenly felt hands ghosting over his skin again.

_Hands slide down his stomach, loosening his belt and unbuttoning his trousers._

" _No, I don't want to. It hurts."_

" _I want to show you how much I love you."_

_Nails dig into the flesh at his hips. Pain, an intense feeling of violation and shame._ Stop just stop please stop. . .

He sat on the floor with his back to the wall and waited impatiently for the internal slideshow to stop and control to return. But when he closed his eyes, the pictures brightened instead of faded. The colors were garishly oversaturated and Lindt's voice was loud in his ear.  _You're so clever. My little detective. I love you, Sherlock. This is what people do when they love each other._

Stop it stop it stop it stop it! But no matter how much he shouted silently to his own mind, he couldn't force the images to flee. He should be able to control them, but he couldn't. His control mechanism was damaged ( _damaged, damaged, damaged,_ taunted Donovan's voice in a sing-song rhythm). His mind did what it wanted and he had to submit. Just as Lindt had done to him.

He wasn't sure how long he sat there with his eyes screwed shut, but by the time he finally felt under control again, it was nearly dark. In the interim, he had ignored almost a dozen alerts from his phone: more text messages and phone calls from everyone and their dog. He supposed it was gone dinner time, but he wasn't the slightest bit hungry, and besides, there was nothing in the flat to eat anyway, as John and Alice had polished off the jam tarts.

He forced himself to his feet and attempted to examine the map again, without the magnifier this time, but he simply could not focus. He kept feeling those hands on his skin, and since his back was to the door, every few seconds he would spin around, sure someone was behind him. It wasn't long before he gave up and dropped into his chair to think. Why couldn't figure out where Popovic could be hiding? At the moment, he didn't dare enter his mind palace to search his mental map of London, because it would mean walking past  _that door_.

Finally, thoroughly frustrated, he dragged himself out of his chair around eleven and put himself to bed on the sofa. A sleepless night was catching up to him, leaving him leaden with exhaustion. He didn't feel he could face walking all the way down the hall to the bedroom, which at that moment felt like it was on a different continent. He put his phone in "Do Not Disturb" mode. He was tired of trying to ignore the incessant buzzing. He certainly wasn't going to answer the phone, so why even have it ring?

When he woke up from a nightmare, several hours later, it was pitch dark in the flat. Someone had turned off the lamp and tucked a blanket around him (Damn Mrs Hudson!). He kicked at the blanket until it fell off in a heap on the floor, then flopped back on the sofa with a groan. His heart was pounding and he was uncomfortably sweaty. Images from the nightmare still flooded his mind; he pressed his hands against the sides of his head as if he could push them out that way, but they persisted.

He needed to process this logically. He had to open that door and deal with what was inside. He had been putting it off all day, but it was time. He wasn't a child any longer. He was in control of his emotions. The body was just transport. What did it matter what had happened to him over thirty years previous?

Sherlock took a deep breath to compose himself. Not enough. He took another, and then another. By the time he let out the third exhalation, he felt ready to enter his mind palace. He lay back on the sofa. Visualize the mind palace intact and the door repaired, he told himself. You are in control.

With a final deep breath, he closed his eyes. Immediately he was confronted with an image of the door, still shattered and hanging half-off its hinges, with the front hallway dark. Still  _damaged_ , dammit. Definitely not good, but he pressed on anyway.

He attempted again to conjure up a strong torch, but again his mind only supplied an infuriatingly dim candle. It would have to do. He stepped around the broken door and entered the hallway with the candle held up to light the way. He tiptoed (tiptoed! In his own mind palace!) down the hallway, past the camping door. He almost would have preferred to enter that door than the one he was heading to.

As he turned the corner, he was confronted again with the blank gray door, now tightly shut. This time he could hear no music behind it. Behind that door lay the source of the confusing and frightening images that he had been plagued with for the past several days. He knew he had to put that room in order, so that he could process what had happened and move on, but he was struck again by an urge to chuck it all and go find Redbeard instead.

No, he had to face this. He had to deal with it. He would be the master of this situation, not the other way round. He held out his hand (never mind that it was trembling) and reached for the knob, only to have it suddenly start to grow, upward, higher and higher until it was level with the top of his head. Not just the door had grown, he realized. The ceiling was twice its usual height and the entire hallway was enormous. Oh, no—the hallway wasn't bigger; he was  _smaller_.

Sherlock tipped his head back and glared up at the doorknob. This door was not going to defeat him. He would open this goddamned door no matter how big it got. He wrapped both his small hands around the doorknob and turned it. The door stuck at first, but when he applied a bit more pressure, it suddenly popped open, startling him. He recovered quickly and pushed the door the rest of the way open. It was dark inside, and cold. He held the candle up, but still couldn't see anything inside. He would have to enter blind.

He tried to listen but he couldn't hear anything over the pounding in his ears. Cautiously, he took a step into the room. The candle's light gave a dim impression of the contents of the room, but he could make out no details. He took another step, then another until he was fully inside the room.

A sudden gust of wind blew the candle out and left him in near total darkness. The door slammed shut behind him, trapping him inside the room. Frantically he conjured up another light source, a lantern this time, because his mind still didn't seem up to producing a torch. He held it up and peered around at the dim room. To his left, a small boy sat in a wooden chair, facing away, with a violin across his lap. Was that a smaller version of himself he was seeing? No, the boy's hair was a surprising shade of ginger.

He turned to his right and suddenly found himself face to face with a man in a brown suit—Mr Lindt, as he had looked thirty years previous. He was huge and much too close.

Sherlock stumbled back a step, tripped over the chair, and fell backward into something soft. When he twisted around to look at it, he discovered he was leaning against an enormous teddy bear wearing a red uniform with gold trim, and a tall black hat. One eye was bigger than the other, curved glass, and in it he caught a reflection of his own frightened face. Behind him, he spotted Mr Lindt looming over him with a terrifying smile.

He spun around with a strangled cry just as Mr Lindt's lips pulled back to reveal vampire fangs, dripping with blood. Sherlock's cry died on his lips from lack of oxygen. Dropping the lantern, he grabbed for the door, heaved it open, and sprinted down the hallway toward the front entrance, where he could see a sliver of light from the outside.

Halfway down the hall, his flight was impeded by a figure standing directly in his path: the boy who had been sitting in the chair, wearing a green jumper, slim and ginger-haired with a cowlick that caused his fringe to stand up in the middle. "Why won't you help me?" the boy accused him in a high-pitched voice. "You could have saved me!" Who was this boy and what was he talking about? Sherlock didn't have time to try to puzzle it out; he was too busy trying to get away.

He shot a glance back over his shoulder—the vampire was only a few paces behind, drops of blood glistened on his fangs in the pale light. Sherlock attempted to grab the boy to drag him out the door, but the vampire snatched him from his grasp. Sherlock kept running. Behind him he heard the boy's voice raised in an unearthly shriek, "HELP ME!"

As soon as his foot hit the front step, Sherlock's eyes popped open and he discovered that he was lying on the floor between the sofa and the coffee table with no recollection of how he had got there. He carefully picked himself up off the floor and sat gingerly on the sofa. What had just happened? Well, he knew what had happened—he had just been chased out of his mind palace by a vampire. Even now his heart was thumping and beads of cold sweat ran down from his fringe. Perhaps this processing thing was not going to be as easy as he had thought.

His mind felt hazy, like it was wrapped in cotton wool, or possibly full of smoke. He wondered if his mind palace was burning down. He had dropped a lantern in there, after all.

* * *

 

Onward, to the bonus chapter!


	18. The downside of using civilians

Monday morning Donovan got in early, with the idea of contacting the headmaster of Rutherford Primary School and asking about student records. It wasn't impossible to hope that she could find a list, and maybe even a yearbook with photos to match to her videos, was it?

When she got to her desk, she found an envelope from Tracey Sorrell that contained a statement from Rainer Lindt. It was short and to the point: he admitted that he had been a violin tutor but denied any wrongdoing. Donovan just shook her head. How did he think that was going to work when they had witness statements along with videotaped evidence of multiple sexual assaults? In fact, it was only through Pomeroy's finesse that Lindt had been released on bail instead of sitting in a jail cell awaiting trial.

The statement also accused Mycroft Holmes of assault and announced Lindt's intentions to press charges. Shit. She had really hoped that she wouldn't have to arrest Mycroft. Now she only hoped she could convince him to come in on his own to get processed. Donovan stuffed the statement back into the envelope with a sigh and texted Lestrade.  **Just got a statement from RL accusing MH of assault. Think he'll come in on his own?**

While she waited for a response, she booted up her computer to search for Rutherford Primary school. She didn't expect it would be too difficult, since she knew it was within a few blocks radius of Lindt's flat.

She was wading through search results when her phone chimed with a text from Lestrade.  _I'll ask him to come in. We can handle it quietly_. Oh, God, she hoped they could keep this out of the press. She just needed to make sure Fadil didn't find out about it. Maybe it would be easier if she just killed him now and got it over with.

Her phone chimed again _. Riley published another story claiming the Met have something to hide. Maybe it's time for us to schedule a press conference to set the record straight?_

Ugh, Donovan hated press conferences. She could never see the reporters' faces over the lights, and all the conflicting shouts gave her a headache. Maybe she could talk Lestrade into running the thing while she stood behind his shoulder and nodded.

Another chime.  _To clarify: by "us" I mean "you."_

**How did you know what I was thinking? Holmes is rubbing off on you. Ok Boss, I'll see to it** _._

Donovan shook her head and returned her attention to her search. An hour later, she had discovered to her chagrin that Rutherford Primary School no longer existed, and in fact the building had burned to the ground in 1994, so that was a dead end. Her brief shining hope of a list of male students from which to find possible victims died an ugly death.

She was contemplating when and how to schedule the press conference when her phone chimed with a text. She pulled the phone from her pocket and glanced at it, then froze and re-read the message, which came from Tracey Sorrell.

_Got a motion to quash the videotape evidence_  was all it said. Donovan's stomach gave an uncomfortable lurch. Quash the videotapes? They were the foundation of their case.

**On what grounds?!**  she demanded angrily.

_They're claiming Gilbert was acting as an agent of the police._

**What? Where would they get that idea?**

_You tell me._

Donovan's stomach gave another little lurch. Gilbert had been her C.I., but now she was remembering a few other small jobs he had done for her that were more or less under the radar. Oh God.

With leaden feet she tracked down Lestrade, who was sitting at his desk, brow furrowed, with files spread out all over. She glimpsed a few more surveillance photos of his prizefighter suspect in the McClinchy homicide taken from various angles.

He glanced up briefly when she walked in, and then back down at the photos. "Hey, Sally, what's up?"

"Pomeroy submitted a motion to quash the videotapes."

Lestrade's head jerked up. "What? On what grounds?"

"They're arguing. . ."

"Yeah?"

"They're arguing Gilbert was acting as an agent of the police when he nicked them."

"Agent of the police? Where would they get that idea?"

Donovan stared at a spot on the floor just in front of Lestrade's desk: a small square indentation in the carpet that indicated the desk had been moved at some point in the past. Her hand went automatically to the Saint Monica pendant on her necklace, her fingers rubbing over the outline of the saint's staff and the folds of her dress, as if it could protect her from the shit that was about to come down.

After a momentary pause, Lestrade said, "Sally?"

"Well. . ."

"What? What is it? They're not right, are they?"

"He was an informant, remember? For both of us. But that was six years ago. I haven't seen him since."

"Then he wasn't acting as an agent of the police."

"No, of course not! I didn't tell that idiot to go rob houses!"

"Right. Of course not. You wouldn't do that. Good."

"It's just that. . ."

"What?"

"Well, I may have asked him to. . . procure a few things for me, back when he was working with us."

_"Procure_  things? What are you talking about?"

Donovan felt her cheeks turning red. She wasn't proud of herself, but it wasn't like Lestrade was squeaky-clean either. What she had used Gilbert for was no worse than the ways Lestrade had used Sherlock.

"Shut that door, would you?" Lestrade said, not unkindly. Donovan did so. "All right, spill it."

"It's just—well, a couple of times, when it was inconvenient for us to collect evidence, he may have brought me a few things. Not anything I needed to use at trial, of course, but something to put us on the right track. . ."

"Oh, no."

"It wasn't an official relationship, mind you, just—Oh shit. . ."

"What?"

"Pomeroy knew about it. That's how he recognized Gilbert's name."

"How did he know?"

"A case from about six years ago, just before I made sergeant. Toddler disappears, our prime suspect is Mum, who's Pomeroy's client. Mum blames the ex-boyfriend, but we can't get a warrant because we've got no evidence and he's got an alibi. So I send Andy to break into his flat, and he comes back with evidence the bloke was in Hounslow when the kid went missing, not Bristol as he claimed, close enough to come back into town, snatch the kid and be gone again without anyone the wiser. We went poking around in Hounslow, found a station master who remembered him, and got our warrant. Found the kid's body wrapped up in a trunk in a back closet. Bam, Gabriel's client walks free."

Lestrade rubbed his face. "I don't want to tell you you're buggered, but. . ."

"Oh, God, he's going to get those videotapes thrown out, isn't he? If those videotapes are thrown out of evidence, our case could fall apart."

"You've still got Mycroft."

Donovan shook her head. "It'd be second degree sexual assault at best. That's nothing compared to what I know this piece of shit did."

"What about the tape from my cold case, Johnny Blue-Eyes? That tape has a completely different chain of custody. Have you watched it yet?"

"No, I was concentrating on the ones Gilbert sent us."

"Check it out. See if you can find the section of video it came from. Definitely first degree rape with aggravating circumstances. And we might be able to nail him on distribution of child pornography as well."

"But we'd need Sherlock to testify to make the link with Lindt. Without Sherlock, we'll have nothing."

"Then we'll get Sherlock."

"He won't answer my calls, boss. I don't think he'll do it. His brother practically threatened my life if I didn't leave him alone. And can you imagine putting him on the stand to be interviewed by Sorrell? With their history?"

"We may not have a choice. Keep trying. What about that school?"

"Rutherford Primary. I checked it out. It's shut down."

"Well, go ahead and schedule that press conference. Ask for the public's help. Maybe someone else will come forward. There are thirty more victims that we know of."

"So where the hell are they?"

* * *

On Tuesday morning, when Molly got to the morgue, she found Sherlock leaning against the wall in the hallway waiting for her. His collar was popped, hair clean and combed, scarf arranged just so, clothes impeccably pressed as usual. He didn't look like a man who had recently had a psychotic break. He looked. . . surprisingly normal, fine.

He pushed himself off the wall and stood in front of her, blocking her way to the door, hands folded behind his back, a tiny smirk on his face.

"Hello, Sherlock. Do you need something?" she asked automatically while she stepped around him and unlocked the door to the morgue. She assumed he was after a dead body or body parts. She hadn't seen him since he had run out of her flat the previous week, and he had only texted her that once, on the following afternoon to tell her to stop worrying. She had texted and called him several times since then, but he hadn't responded. She had only John's word for it that he was still alive, which rankled her. It was her flat he had run out of. It seemed only fitting that he should come by or at the very least phone her and give her an explanation.

"It's Tuesday," he said. He held out his hand with something in it—a small jar half-filled with pale amber liquid. Oh! Sample day. She had forgotten.

He continued to hold the jar out while she stared at him. After a moment, she decided to take it as a peace offering. "Ok, Sherlock, thanks." She took the jar and started into the morgue. The door swung shut behind her, but a second later he pushed it open again and followed her in.

While she set up the test, he stood silently watching her. It was making her uncomfortable, made her wonder if he was deducing that she had eaten four biscuits for breakfast or that she had almost phoned Tom last night because she was lonely.

"Is this sample actually yours this time?" she asked, to break the tension.

"Of course it is," he said with an immediate scowl.

"There's no 'of course' about it. Last time you tried to fool me with a sample from some old codger. Maybe I should DNA test this as well."

"I'm trying to abide by the terms of our agreement," he snapped. "Just test the sample and be done with it."

Molly suspected that John had threatened his life if he didn't comply, but she didn't say anything about that. Instead she prepared the sample while he stood glowering at her from the other end of the counter. Feeling conspicuous, as if it were she under the microscope instead of his sample, she tested the urine and found traces of haloperidol, which cleared up the question of whether he had been in hospital after he had run out of her flat. No statins, which she hoped meant it was actually his urine this time. No sleeping medications either. Did that mean he was sleeping better now? Or had he given up on trying?

When she was finished, she could feel his eyes still on her. Finally she turned to him and raised her eyebrows, but he still said nothing. "Well?" she asked, folding her arms.

"Well, what?"

"I've been worried sick about you. No call, no texts, you don't return my messages, nothing for almost a week. You could have been dead in a ditch."

"If I were dead in a ditch, you would know about it, because my body would be lying on a slab in your cooler," he said flippantly.

"Not funny, Sherlock."

"All right." He took a deep breath. "Molly Hooper, I apologize for destroying your bear," he said in a rushed, flat tone with his eyes fixed on the far wall. "I'll buy you another."

Molly narrowed her eyes at him. That sounded like the kind of apology a five year old would give when prompted by his mother. Or in this case, probably prompted by John. "I don't care about the bear—well, I do, but I care about you more. I was afraid. . . well, you looked like you were having a flashback. I thought you had remembered something. . . something awful."

He blinked at her for a moment; his mouth opened and closed abruptly, then he dropped the eye contact and stepped back against the counter. Molly stayed put, carefully folding her hands behind her back. She remembered what had happened the last time she had gotten in his face, and she really didn't fancy having him run out again. "What was it, Sherlock? Can you tell me what's going on?"

"Talking serves no useful purpose," he said scornfully, but he touched the knuckles of his left hand to his lips while he said it, like he was trying to keep the words in. Now that she was closer and the light was better, she noticed dark smudges beneath his eyes, so he obviously hadn't been sleeping well. Even though he looked so perfectly pulled together and everything seemed fine on the outside, she was sure something was going on under the surface, something he didn't feel he could share with her. Something. . . but what?

"Maybe you don't want to talk to me, but is there someone else you can talk to? You need to tell someone."

"I talked to John," he said firmly. His hand squeezed into a fist and dropped to his side again. "You don't need to worry about me. I'm all right."

That sounded like it was probably meant to be reassuring, but it was significantly less than convincing, especially when she noticed the slight tremor in his hand. "I can't help it. There's something wrong and I can't help you. I don't even know what it is."

"I'm fine. Now can we actually talk about why I am here? I was hoping you had an arm to spare."

"An arm?"

"Yes," he said briskly, "with no excess adipose tissue. The fresher the better, and female if possible. I need to experiment with some post-mortem cuts."

Ah, that sounded more like the usual Sherlock. If he was asking for body parts, maybe he was all right after all, Molly thought; time would tell.

* * *

**A/N** : Thanks so much for reading. If you have a second, I'd love to hear what you think. Drop me a quick comment below!


	19. Bless'd be the ties that bind

Sherlock managed to evade his parents for nearly another week, through judicious use of his boltholes, and once a getaway down the back fire escape just before they walked in the front. It helped that he could always figure out when they were lurking about, because the knocker was straightened, so he would just tell the cabby to keep driving. And he had found and dispatched two more video cameras (one by dangling it out the window with the lens facing the building, and the other by attaching it to the underside of a cab). But he knew he couldn't avoid his family forever. He had to sleep sometime, and Mycroft was far too handy with the lockpicks for his own good.

It was his mother's stage whisper that woke him, far too early in the morning after a night spent being chased by a vampire in his dreams. It was difficult to wake up rested when he felt like he had run a marathon in his sleep. Sherlock groaned under his breath and rolled over in bed, listening. His mother's whisper was clearly audible, even through the closed bedroom door. "Are you sure he's in there?"

"Yes, Mother," came Mycroft's weary voice, softer but no less audible. "Please be quiet; you'll wake him up."

"Isn't that the point? It's difficult to talk to him when he's sleeping."

"I suppose."

Footsteps on the lino, then a quiet knock at the door. "Little brother, I know you're awake. Please come out here and put me out of my misery."

Sherlock pushed the pillow over his face and groaned again, a little louder. There was no use telling him to go away, because it would only provoke an argument that Sherlock knew he had no hope of winning, especially when Mycroft had Mummy as back-up. Heaven knew having one mother was difficult enough. What had he done to be cursed with two?

"Five more seconds and I'm coming in," Mycroft said through the door. "Five. . . Four. . ."

With a frustrated grunt, Sherlock threw back the covers and flung himself out of bed. Too bad he wasn't naked. It would serve Mycroft right if he answered the door in the buff.

He yanked open the door just as Mycroft started to turn the knob, with the result that he ended up pulling his brother off-balance. Unfortunately he didn't fall, but immediately regained his footing and gave Sherlock a tight smile. "Ah, there you are. I knew you were awake."

"How could I sleep through that?" Sherlock muttered. "Could you please teach Mother how to whisper?"

"Believe me, I've tried." Mycroft turned on his heel and headed back down the hallway and through the kitchen with Sherlock trailing reluctantly after. "Found him."

As Sherlock entered the sitting room, he discovered not only his mother sitting in John's chair, but also his father, standing by the fireplace looking uncomfortable. His father had a bit of a faded, partially peeled sunburn peeking up above his collar, which couldn't have happened in London in October, so they had obviously been someplace sunny, just about two weeks ago, which was right about when the current shit had hit the fan. He suspected Mycroft had had a hand in that.

"Sherlock!" his mother greeted him, struggling out of the chair. "I'm so glad to see you, dear."

"Really? I'm never glad to see anyone at half eight on a Sunday morning. Couldn't you have come at noon?"

"We've tried, but you're never home. You can't blame us for wanting to see you, can you, sweetheart?"

"I suppose not," he grumbled. His mother reached for his hand, and he let her take it, silently counted to three in his head, then gently but firmly patted the back of her hand as he pulled away. He had learned this little trick years ago. Give Mother a bit of what she wanted (vague displays of affection, Christmas dinners, distant hopes of grandchildren, but not hugs—he absolutely drew the line at hugs), then confidently disentangle himself while she was still riding the emotional high. It satisfied her just enough to keep her off his back, which was his entire goal when dealing with his mother.

"Oh, Sherlock," his mother said in a quavery voice, hand stretched out toward his face. He took a step back, eye roll at the ready. Here it came—the histrionics, the exaggerated rehashing and blame-laying, the  _drama_. Mummy was all about the drama. When he was in hospital (the second time) after Mary had shot him, his mother had spent most of every visit vacillating between begging him to tell her who shot him, and giving the nurses stick about their deplorable standards of care.  _My son needs ice chips! Why doesn't my boy have ice chips!_

But instead of launching into the tirade he had been expecting, his mother just sort of crumpled in on herself—head down, shoulders pulled in, hands clenched together—and began to cry soundlessly. It was quite different to her usual theatrics, and Sherlock discovered he had no idea how to respond. He shot an anxious glance at Mycroft ( _FIX THIS!),_ but found that Mycroft was also staring at her wide-eyed, so he turned his gaze helplessly to his father, who pulled away from the fireplace and crossed to her.

"Minnie, dear. . ."

His mother allowed herself to be helped back into John's chair, with his father's arm around her. Sherlock expected that at any moment she would start casting blame and guilt about, but she just sat silently weeping. Blame and guilt Sherlock could handle, as he had been training for it his whole life: Mummy tossed around predictable phrases like "How could you?" and "You're breaking your mother's heart," and Sherlock and Mycroft responded by either ignoring her or rolling their eyes until she knocked it off. These silent tears were something else altogether. Watching her, Sherlock felt an unfamiliar twist in his midsection.

Mycroft settled himself carefully on the edge of the chair opposite her. His hand reached out toward her, but then dropped back to his lap. He looked quite as out of his depth as Sherlock felt. Was he chewing the inside of his cheek?

"Mother, I'm. . . I'm quite all right," Sherlock said awkwardly, to break the emotional intensity of the moment.

His mother's response was so quiet he had to strain to hear. "Oh, Sherlock, I'm so sorry. How could I have not known?"

Sherlock blinked and shifted from foot to foot. His mother had apologized to him? That never happened,  _ever_. Mummy never admitted fault, and  _did not apologize_ , a trait which Sherlock had inherited and honed to perfection.

"You couldn't have known," he reassured her once he had found his voice again. "The police are on this. . ." (He wasn't sure of the truth of that statement, but Mummy didn't have to know that) ". . . He'll be prosecuted and thrown into prison."

"But won't you have to testify?"

"No, Mother," Mycroft put in, finally reaching out and taking her hand. "I've arranged it with the police. I will testify and they won't call on Sherlock."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at his brother. He had arranged it, had he? That explained why he hadn't gotten any more calls from Donovan. He felt a flash of relief at the news, overshadowed by sudden anger. Why did Mycroft always have to  _arrange_  everything for him? His whole life, Mycroft had made constant intrusions on his sovereignty, which Sherlock typically reacted to by perversely heading in the opposite direction, sometimes at a run.

"Oh, thank you, Mycroft. I take back everything I said about you on the phone." His mother dried her tears on his father's handkerchief and returned to some semblance of her normal self. "Sherlock, you must tell me what that horrible man did."

Both his parents blinked at him expectantly (and wetly). Oh, no, this was not on. It had been difficult enough telling John. Describing the Vampire's violations in the level of detail his mother would insist on would be excruciating, not to mention humiliating. He simply couldn't do it. Sherlock shot a glance at Mycroft, to discover he was rolling his eyes. Right. That was the correct response to Mummy's prying.

"Mother, I don't think it's important to rehash all of the details. It's being taken care of. Now, if you don't mind, I'm working on a case and I need to think."

"You weren't working on a case when we got here. Unless the case is in your bedroom somehow. I often think your flat looks like a murder scene. . ."

"No, it's a double homicide. Would you like to hear all the gory details?"

"Merciful heavens, no!"

"Well, then, you'd better pop off out of here. I've got some gruesome crime scene photos to examine." He took his mother by the elbow and "helped" her out of her chair while she spluttered.

"Sherlock, this discussion isn't over. I want to know what happened!"

To Sherlock's surprise, Mycroft came to his rescue. "Come along, Mummy. We can pop in at that lovely bakery downstairs for scones."

"Well—but—Sherlock, are you coming?"

"No, Mum, I've got an arm in the fridge that needs dissecting. Mustn't keep it waiting."

"Don't think I don't know what you two are up to!" Mother scolded. "Sherlock, we will discuss this later. Let go of my elbow, Mykie. Alistair, aren't you coming?"

"Yes, dear." Dad dutifully trooped out after their mother, patting Sherlock kindly on the shoulder on his way out. "It'll be all right, son."

Sherlock frowned at his back as he exited through the door that Mycroft was holding open for him. He couldn't remember the last time his father had touched him. His father was a good man, but physically demonstrative he was not.

Sherlock crossed to the entrance to close the door but discovered Mycroft's foot in the way. His parents were already headed down the stairs—he could hear their friendly bickering receding into the distance.

"Are you sure you're all right?"

"Of course I am." Sherlock took hold of the doorhandle and pushed the door into Mycroft's foot. "Now leave me alone. I'm busy."

"I worry about you."

"Stop trying to mother me. I don't need it from her, and I certainly don't need it from  _you_."

Mycroft opened his mouth like he was about to say something more, perhaps along the lines of "Yes, you do need mothering," but instead he closed his mouth, sighed through his nose, and withdrew his foot without another word. Sherlock shut the door, being careful not to slam it lest he attract his parents' attention, and clicked the lock shut. Mycroft had just let him get in the last word? Impossible!


	20. Me and Sgt Donovan, we's mates

Three weeks later, Lestrade had a seat in front row of the galley for the interlocutory hearing on suppressing the videotapes. Donovan had been called to testify, of course. Lestrade didn't technically have to be there, but he had agreed for Sally's sake. At least she would have a friendly face in the crowd while she was going up against Pomeroy. Lestrade had sat in on attempts to question his clients before, a few times. The man was the quiet scary type. Soft voice, pleasant smile, and all the while he was silently slipping the knife in under your ribs. You could find a case dead before you even knew what had hit you.

The hearing was open to the public, which Lestrade knew that Sorrell had fought against. But this was Judge Hollingberry's courtroom, which was another strike against them. Judge Hollingberry frowned upon secrecy and what she considered to be police corruption. She frowned upon most things, actually. Her thin face seemed to be arranged into a permanently sour expression.

Hollingberry was also a vocal critic of delays in trial, hence this expedited hearing. The last time Lestrade had been a witness in her courtroom, in 2012, she had spent at least ten minutes castigating him for the fact that it had taken NSY almost a year before trial began in another notorious paedophile case, and after that case was eventually dropped she had been quoted in the papers listing what she felt were the short-comings of the Metropolitan Police and CPS.

Lestrade seriously hoped they could catch a break with this hearing, although he doubted it would go their way. Already they had had their request for remand denied and Lindt had been released with a laughably low bail. Then Lestrade and Donovan had had to arrest and fingerprint Mycroft Holmes, who was actually surprisingly gracious about the whole thing. To say nothing of the fact that Sherlock appeared to have dropped off the face of the earth, right in the middle of a homicide investigation that was going nowhere. And their press conference had netted them a whole lot of nothing. Not a single young man or even concerned mother had spoken up to accuse Lindt.

Donovan was the first witness called. Under Tracey Sorrell's questioning, she explained that Gilbert had been a Confidential Informant, but that the position had ended almost six years before. He had no current relationship with NSY. Lestrade sat and listened with what he hoped was an encouraging expression on his face. It wasn't like Donovan was lying, exactly, but he knew she wasn't telling the whole truth. Part of him thought she should go ahead and say it, just to get it over with, but he kept his thoughts to himself.

After a few minutes of questioning, Sorrell turned to Pomeroy and said, "Your witness." He stepped up smoothly, with a serious expression on his face that would probably come off very striking in the chalk drawings.

"Sergeant Donovan, did you ever use Andrew Gilbert for other jobs?"

"What sort of other jobs?" Donovan was looking up into the second level of the galley and her face took on a distracted, troubled sort of expression. Lestrade turned around to see what she was looking at, but his view was blocked by the railing.

"Did you ever ask him to break into houses and procure items for you?"

Sorrell immediately bounced to her feet and said briskly, "Madam, I must object to this line of questioning; my learned friend is leading the witness!"

"Mr Pomeroy?" The judge's sour expression hadn't changed, but she certainly looked interested for the first time in the proceedings.

"Your Worship," Pomeroy put in smoothly, "I am attempting to ascertain the true nature of Mr Gilbert's employment. It is my belief that Sergeant Donovan is being less than forthcoming."

"I will allow it. Mr Pomeroy, you may continue. But exercise caution, please."

"Of course, Madam. Sergeant Donovan, please answer the question."

Donovan, who had spent the entire exchange with her eyes on the upper level of the galley, blinked and snapped back to the present. "What was the question?"

"Have you ever asked Andrew Gilbert to break into houses and procure items for the police?"

"I may have done once or twice," she said reluctantly. Her eyes darted to the upper level again, and quickly back down.

" _May_  have done? Or  _did_?"

"Fine. I did."

"You sent Andrew Gilbert in as an agent of the police to steal items for you."

"Well, sort of. But not in this—"

"No further questions." Pomeroy went quietly back to his seat, leaving Donovan spluttering on the stand. The judge looked like she had tasted something bitter.

"Your Worship, I would like to redirect the witness," Sorrell said hastily. This earned her a slight nod from the judge. "Sergeant Donovan, did you direct Mr Gilbert to break into Mr Lindt's flat?"

"No, I did not," Donovan responded firmly. She was looking up at the upper level of the galley again.

"And prior to his arrest in connection with this case, when was the last time you saw or spoke to Mr Gilbert?"

"Six years ago."

"Thank you, Sergeant. I have no further questions."

"Ms Donovan, you are dismissed with the court's thanks," Judge Hollingberry said in a voice that sounded anything but grateful. Donovan nodded to her, left the stand, and headed for the front row of the galley, where Lestrade scooted over to make space for her.

As soon as she sat down, she pulled out her notepad and scribbled a note, which she showed to Lestrade. "Sherlock and John are here." She jerked her chin toward the upper level of the galley, where Lestrade couldn't see from his position. Shit.

Sorrell had no further witnesses, so Pomeroy called Andrew Gilbert to the stand next. When they brought him in, he immediately spotted Lestrade and Donovan and gave them a huge grin. Lestrade was sure he would have waved at them too if his hands hadn't been shackled together.

Pomeroy stood so he was facing mostly toward the galley, playing to the audience it appeared to Lestrade. He had a file folder in his hands and a pair of reading glasses hanging off his nose. Donovan scrawled on her notepad: "He doesn't really need those. They're for effect."

"Mr Gilbert," Pomeroy began. "Thank you for being here today."

"It'd be my pleasure to help out my friends at NSY," Gilbert said brightly. "They been good to me. I owes 'em one." He aimed the broad smile at Lestrade and Donovan again, who both just stared at him stony-faced.

"Can you describe your relationship with The Metropolitan Police?"

"Yeah, I'm an informant. Helped 'em break some big cases, too."

"So you work for the police?"

"Yeah, like a deputy or some'at," he said proudly. "I helps 'em out, they help me out."

"And are you paid for your work?"

"'Course I gets paid. Like I said, I works for 'em. It's a good job, too." Another grin and a proud nod were aimed at Lestrade and Donovan.

"You said you were an informant. Did you do any other jobs for Sergeant Donovan or Inspector Lestrade?"

"Well, sure. I delivered stuff sometimes. I helped 'em set up a sting once on these blokes selling drugs to kids. That was a good one."

"Anything else?"

"Yeah, a few times I got 'em stuff they needed. Like for cases and stuff."

"Got them "stuff they needed"? Where would you get this. . . stuff?"

Gilbert's pleasantly vacant expression dropped a little, like a man who smelled something foul but had not yet figured out he had stepped into dog shit. "Well, er, I—uh—acquired it."

"Acquired it?"

"Yeah." Gilbert was trying to catch Lestrade's eye, but he stared straight ahead.

"Sergeant Donovan told us you helped out the police by breaking into houses to acquire items for them. Is that true?"

"Yeah, I was helping. Yeah. I only broke into the houses of bad blokes, chaps who was up to no good. Just to get things for the coppers. It was a community service like. I helped nail 'em. The sergeant and the inspector, they always told me if I found something important, they wanted to see it. So when I seen those tapes, I knew they'd want 'em."

"But you didn't even recall where you had. . . 'acquired' the tapes?"

"No, not so much. I weren't sure on account of I—well, it was a busy night, see?"

"And the job where you acquired the videotapes in questions-were you paid for this job?"

"Well, not cash so much, but Sergeant Donovan, she said I done good. She's gonna help me out with some stuff, so that's payment enough." Gilbert again had a satisfied grin plastered across his face, but when he saw Lestrade and Donovan both sunk down in their seats cringing, the smile faltered a little. "I done good, right? I did what the sergeant and the inspector wanted. I knows I did the right thing sending in those tapes."

"You did what you were told to do, Andrew. Thank you. Your witness, Ms Sorrell."

Gilbert positively beamed under what he obviously perceived as high praise. Pomeroy sat back down with a flourish and Sorrell stepped up.

"Mr Gilbert, did the police ask you to break into Rainer Lindt's flat?"

"Is that the fellow with the tapes? N-no. Not 'pecifically-like."

"So you were not representing the police when you stole those tapes."

"Well, you know, I've always got my eyes open as to how I can help 'em out, like I was told. You know, just like he said."

"How many houses have you broken into in the past year, Mr Gilbert?"

"Past year?" Gilbert squeaked. "I got no idear."

"More than twenty?"

"I suppose. Maybe. I ain't sure."

"Were any of those jobs done for the police?"

"Well, no. . ."

"Have you done  _any_  jobs for the police lately?"

"No, but it was open-ended, like. Me and Sergeant Donovan, we's mates. I got her on speed dial, her and the inspector. They helps me out; I helps them out. I didn't do nuffin' wrong."

Lestrade couldn't watch anymore. He put his hand over his face, squeezed his eyes shut, and silently prayed to a God he wasn't sure he believed in for it to be over soon.

* * *

While Gilbert gave his "testimony", Donovan sat silently berating herself up one side and down the other. If she had never employed Gilbert to do what he did best, they wouldn't be in this predicament. Of course, if she had never used Gilbert, he likely wouldn't have sent in those tapes, or at least he wouldn't have sent them to Lestrade, and if someone else had watched them, they would never have made the connection to Sherlock, so the case wouldn't have gone anywhere anyway. Catch-22 of the worst kind.

Speaking of Sherlock, what was he doing here? When she had looked up into the galley and seen the two of them sitting there (Sherlock looking bored, John expressionless with his arms folded tightly across his chest), she had gotten distracted. And of course, Pomeroy had taken full advantage of her trouble concentrating. She was fucked for sure, which meant their case was fucked as well. Pomeroy always found a way to get what he wanted.

Finally Gilbert was dismissed from the stand and the hearing mercifully came to a close. As soon as the judge announced that she would have her ruling soon and ended the hearing, Donovan was up and out the door, with Lestrade following several steps behind.

"Sally!" Lestrade called. "Hold up."

She waited for him outside the doors. Just before he caught up with her, she saw the door to the stairwell open and John came out followed by Sherlock. John's lips were pressed together and he was moving with brisk, angry steps. Sherlock, who was trailing along behind, didn't look angry. He looked. . . preoccupied. Anxious. The expression didn't seem right on him.

While she was studying Sherlock's face, Sally became aware that Lestrade was talking to her. "You all right?"

"Yeah, I'm all right," she replied with her eyes still following Sherlock.

"You did the right thing in there, no matter how it comes out."

"Thanks, Guv," she responded distractedly. John had headed off down the corridor toward the front door, while Sherlock followed at a slower pace, with his coat wrapped tightly around himself. Someone passing him jostled his elbow, and for a second Donovan caught a glimpse of his profile as he jerked away from the touch, his eyes wide with alarm. And then, just as quickly, the panicked expression turned into a scowl as he kept walking, a little faster to catch up with John who was already almost to the front door.

It was that panic in his eyes that got her. She had to talk to him. She wasn't even sure what she was going to say. What  _could_  she say? Even an apology would ring false and hollow. "Just a second, boss. I gotta. . ."

Donovan hurried off after Sherlock, eyes on his back. "Sherlock?" She said it quietly, almost hoping he wouldn't hear her. But he stopped and turned with a guarded expression. "Sherlock, I'm—"

Suddenly John was there, standing between them with his arms tightly folded across his chest, silent rage in his eyes, blocking her from Sherlock. "Go away, Donovan," he said in a hard, quiet voice.

Donovan felt the tears pricking at the backs of her eyes. She had screwed up and she knew it, and it was making her stomach hurt and her palms sweat. "I just wanted. . ."

"Wanted what? To remind him he's a freak?"

"No! I wanted to apologize."

Sherlock, who was lurking behind John's shoulder, blinked at her with a puzzled expression. But John was shaking his head, unmoved. "You've done enough damage. Just leave him alone."

Donovan took a step back. If she said one more word right now, she was going to cry, and she didn't want that to happen in such a public place, especially not with Sherlock Holmes watching. His puzzled expression had disappeared, and now his eyes were narrowed and his upper lip curled upward into a sneer.

"Your guilty conscience is not my concern," Sherlock said in a low, even voice. "Only idiots start down a road without thinking of the consequences. Don't expect absolution from me."

Donovan felt an icy fist close around her heart. Instinctively she masked the hurt with anger. "I wouldn't want it anyway," she snarled.

John turned and gestured to Sherlock, who fell in beside him, and they both walked off. It looked like Sherlock was setting the pace now, and John had to hurry to keep up with his longer stride. They were soon out the door and out of sight.

Donovan felt Lestrade's hand on her arm. "Sally? What happened?"

"I've fucked everything up; that's what's happened." She strode away, pushing the door open hard and stomping down the first two steps of the courthouse. Lestrade followed, zipping up his coat against the raw weather.

"Did you catch Sherlock?"

"Yeah, I caught him."

"Where's he got off to?"

"Left. Couldn't get away from me fast enough."

"He'll be all right."

"Yeah, probably." But then an image of Sherlock's flinch and panicked expression at being touched flitted back through her mind. He hadn't looked like someone who was all right. "God I hope we don't need him to testify, because he certainly won't do it for me."

"Let's hope it doesn't come to that."

"Doesn't come to what?" came a voice from behind them. Donovan turned to find Tracey Sorrell standing with her arms folded and lips pursed. "To us losing this case because you thought you were above the law?"

"I did warn you."

Sorrell sighed. "Yes, well, at least you didn't add perjury to your list of sins. I'm going to try to convince my boss not to press charges against you, but it'll be a tough sell if this case falls apart. Please tell me you've got something else up your sleeve in case these tapes get thrown out, since your press conference netted you nothing."

Lestrade and Donovan exchanged glances. Donovan looked around: the crowd had cleared out and they were standing alone on the steps of the courthouse. "Well, there is one more tape," she said cautiously.

"One more tape? What do you mean?" Sorrell asked sharply.

"It was from a cold case I worked about ten years ago," Lestrade put in. "Same setting, same perp, one of the same kids. Nothing but a dead end at the time. Never found the perp or the kid."

"Not obtained in a burglary commissioned by the police?"

"Legal warrant."

"Can we connect it to Lindt?"

Donovan hesitated. The only sure connection with Lindt went right through Sherlock. Could she do that?

"Well, can we or not?"

"Yeah, we can connect it."

"All right. Donovan, you review it and get it to me quick. See how it compares to the other tapes. I want to have back-up in case this all goes to hell." Sorrell pulled her coat around herself more tightly to keep out the wind and strode off down the steps, briefcase banging against her leg.

Donovan chewed the inside of her lip. "Shit," she muttered.

"It'll be all right," Lestrade reassured her. He stuffed his bare hands into his pockets and headed down the steps. "Come on, let's get something to eat. I'm starved."

"Where do you want to eat?"

"I dunno. Let's try something new."

"Why don't you look up something on Yelp?"

"On what? I have no idea what you're talking about."

"Yelp. It's an app."

"That's something on the phone, right?"

"Yeah, right. Never mind, I'll do it."

"Good. I hoped you'd say that." As he led her away from the courthouse, Sally caught a flash of long red hair across the street. Damn Kitty Riley! Suddenly she was dreading reading the paper the next day. What would the headlines say about her now?

* * *

 **A/N** : Comments and kudos keep me warm at night. . .


	21. Breaking Johnny Blue-Eyes

**Warning: More description in this chapter. Nothing more graphic than previous chapters, but greater quantity of the same. Consider yourself warned.**

* * *

The following week, Donovan sat in the media room for almost ten minutes turning a videotape over in her hands, trying to work up the courage to watch it. The tape was plain black, with a blank white label. On the box was a simple piece of masking tape with a case number written neatly on it in black marker. There was no indication on the outside of what was on the tape, but she already knew. This was the video that had kept Lestrade up at night: Johnny Blue-Eyes.

Finally she took a deep breath, pushed the tape into the VHS player, and pressed play. After a moment of static, the screen flickered and resolved into the familiar scene of the sitting room, with the wooden chair off to the right side, and the yellow and green flowered sofa on the left.

A boy wearing a blue jumper and gray flannel trousers was standing by the sofa, looking up at a man in a brown suit. As usual, the man's head was out of camera range. Donovan paused the tape and studied the scene. The boy's dark curls were a little longer and he looked a bit taller than he had in the section of the fifth videotape that she had skimmed, but it was clearly the same boy, still Sherlock. This section must have been taken from later in the tape, the part she hadn't watched.

Donovan put the fifth videotape (S 1982) into the other player and fast forwarded through, stopping every few seconds to check, until she found a part where the boy was wearing the same blue jumper and gray trousers. She started playing the tape, and a few minutes later, her patience was rewarded with a scene that looked identical to the start of Johnny Blue Eyes. She punched the pause button and compared the two screens. To her, it was obvious. This section was the source of the Johnny Blue-Eyes video.

Now for the hard part. She was going to have to watch the clip. All of it this time. So far, she hadn't been able to bring herself to watch any of the actual assaults, just what led up to them: Lindt taking the boys to the sofa and starting to remove their clothing, his hands sliding over their innocent skin like a snake. She hadn't felt able to watch any more. It made her physically ill to think about what was going to happen next.

It took Donovan at least five more minutes before she felt mentally prepared to start watching. She straightened her files. She wrote the date and time stamp of both videos on her sheet of notes. She read a few misleading news stories about herself on her phone. While the phone was in her hand, she checked for messages and found one new text, Tracey Sorrell from the Crown Prosecutor's office:  _Hollingberry said she's going to rule on our case today. Should have an answer by 14:00. Got that other tape for me?_

So soon? Hollingberry was known for being efficient, but this was some sort of land-speed record. Donovan texted back:  **I'm working on it** , and dropped the phone face down on the workbench.

Finally, when she had delayed as long as she could, she took a deep breath and pushed play on both players simultaneously. Both videos started moving, and in stereo she saw the man sliding his hands under the boy's jumper and pulling it off over his head, followed by the polo shirt underneath. The trousers went next. Without the bulky clothing, the boy looked impossibly tiny, all skinny arms and protruding ribs and collarbones. She was struck, suddenly, by how intensely vulnerable he looked: a small, defenceless David facing down Goliath.

Donovan forced herself to keep watching, although she could feel the bile rising in her throat. His blue-green eyes stared intensely into the camera, directly at her, it seemed. She was locked into his hard gaze and couldn't look away. His face was completely expressionless, except for a slight flinch when the man's long fingers squeezed into his pale shoulders from behind, leaving white marks along his clavicles that quickly turned pink.

After less than ten minutes, it was over. The man kissed the boy's bare shoulder, pushed himself off the sofa and started gathering their clothes. Donovan became aware that she was holding her breath, and that her fists were so tightly clenched that her nails were digging painfully into her palms. She forced herself to draw in a breath and uncurl her hands.

A moment later, as they were getting redressed, the Johnny Blue Eyes video went back to static. Donovan checked the time stamp on both tapes and wrote them on her notes. As she reached up with a trembling hand to shut off the other tape, she paused with her finger on the button, arrested by what she saw. On the screen, the boy, now fully dressed, had picked up the violin again and was waiting with his back to the camera while the man finished buttoning his shirt. They were talking about something—enough of the man's face was visible that she could see his mouth moving—but she couldn't tell what he was saying. She ran the tape back a few seconds and watched again. This time she caught something that looked like "good boy" and then "so clever," but the rest was too fast to follow.

When the man was dressed again he sat in the chair and pulled the boy in front of him, facing the camera, with his arms wrapped loosely around his slim waist. Then the boy began to play. As soon as the bow touched the strings, his hard gaze softened and his eyes slid closed; long dark lashes lay against the pale skin of his cheek. Even without sound, Donovan recognized that he was an excellent violinist. His movements were fluid, natural, without a hint of fumbling or awkwardness. Donovan continued to watch, transfixed at the confidence and skill with which he played.

While he was playing, the man leaned over and gently kissed the back of his neck. Suddenly the boy's face, which had been completely calm and composed, crumpled, then tears slipped out from under his dark lashes and slid down his cheeks. He continued to play, even though his shoulders were shaking from silent sobs.

Donovan tapped the pause button and the image froze. For a long moment, she sat in the dark and stared at the boy's face— _Sherlock's_  face—streaked with tears. His eyes were screwed shut and his face was twisted in complete devastation.

Donovan felt gorge rising. Through vision clouded over with unexpected tears, she reached out and laid her fingers against his cheek, almost surprised when she felt glass instead of wet skin. Her other hand worried the Saint Monica pendant on her necklace, her thumb rubbing over the folds of fabric in the saint's skirt and the shepherd's staff in her hand. Saint Monica, protector of abused children. What a crock of shit, she thought. No one had protected this little boy, and it wasn't right. Whatever she may think of Sherlock, he certainly didn't deserve to be hurt like this, to have his innocence stolen by a monster.

Donovan swiped at her face and noticed that her hand came away smeared with mascara. Damn, her makeup was probably a mess. Wiping her hand on her trousers, she started the video again.

On the screen the man turned the boy around to face him, with one large hand resting on the boy's hip. With his other hand he gently wiped the tears from boy's face. The man's lips moved, and this time the words were obvious. "I love you, Sherlock. Did you know that?" and the boy gave a small nod through his tears. The man tipped the boy's chin up and placed a firm, possessive kiss on his lips. Donovan slammed the stop button on the remote. She couldn't watch anymore.

Donovan allowed herself a moment to pull her emotions together before she removed both videos. Thinking back to when Sherlock had burst into tears, she suddenly realized that to him, he wasn't staring at a camera: he was a traumatized little boy staring at a  _teddy bear_. Not just some abstract unknown boy like the others in the tapes.  _Sherlock_  had been that traumatized little boy.

A buzz from her phone distracted her—a notification for a text. When she picked up the phone, she saw through bleary eyes a message from Lestrade.

_Judge ruled against us. Expect a call from Sorrell._

Donovan sat and stared at the phone in disbelief. The judge had thrown out the tapes? Just like that? Her emotions, which were already raw, caused her throat to close up and her stomach to clench painfully. This case  _could not_  get thrown out, not now. There had to be justice for Johnny Blue-Eyes and all those other little boys. She had seen the pain in their eyes, and she wouldn't give up on them now. She wouldn't settle for one count of second-degree sexual assault when she knew the full extent of that monster's violations.

While she was staring at the phone, it buzzed in her hand.  _Incoming call from Tracey Sorrell_. Shit.

"Donovan here."

"Sergeant Donovan, your videotapes are out."

"Yeah, DI Lestrade told me."

"You said you had another one."

"I do. I've just finished watching it. It's definitely probative."

"The problem is linking it to Lindt. Lestrade said they never found the boy or the source of the tape. Can you tie it definitively to our suspect?"

Donovan considered. Did she really have to tell Sorrell who was featured in that video? Yes, she did, even though it made her want to vomit. Sherlock would have to testify, and Mycroft would be unhappy, but it was the only way to get justice for all those boys.

With Johnny Blue-Eyes accusing stare burning in her mind, she said heavily, "We know who the victim is."

"You do? Who is it? Can we get him to testify?"

"He doesn't want to."

"Give me his name. I can convince him."

Donovan took a deep breath and told herself she had to do this. It was the only right course of action. "It's Sherlock Holmes."

There was silence on the other end of the line for several seconds, then Sorrell said, "Really?"

"Yes."

"Sherlock Holmes was a victim of a paedophile?"

"Yes. He's as much as admitted it."

" _In_ teresting."

"Ms Sorrell, you should know he doesn't want to testify. I made an agreement with his brother to keep him out of it."

"What did Lindt do to him?"

"Excuse me?"

"Was he raped?" Sorrell sounded almost excited at the idea.

"Oh." Donovan chewed her lip. "Yes."

"I'll have to watch the video." There was definitely a hint of glee in her voice now. "You start thinking of how to get him to testify. I'll send a courier over for the video."

"I need to warn you that you'll be taking on Mycroft Hol—"

"I'll have my assistant call him to set up an interview. I'll let you know when it's scheduled so you can sit in."

Sorrell rang off, and Donovan was left staring at her phone again.  _Shit_. She closed her eyes, and without her consent, her mind called up an image of Sherlock's tear-streaked, devastated face. She couldn't get rid of it, no matter how she tried. Had she just thrown Johnny Blue-Eyes to the wolves?

* * *

Sherlock pulled his coat more tightly around himself and pushed his lukewarm coffee away. He was tucked into the front booth of The Jumping Bean Coffee Shop (who named all of these awful coffee shops anyway?) and after the first hour the barista had insisted he purchase an overpriced cup of coffee in order to stay in his seat.

Across the street, the abandoned block of flats was still quiet, although he was sure Owen Sprott would be showing up any second. He knew Sprott was planning to meet with his supplier today, as he did every Monday and Thursday afternoon. Lucky for Sherlock, Sprott was a creature of habit, which Sherlock was sure would be his downfall.

While he waited, he tried again to figure out where Popovic might be holed up. He was avoiding accessing his mental maps because of the condition of his mind palace, so he had been reduced to using physical maps like a mere mortal. He pulled out his phone and opened the photo he had taken of the map of London with the photos of Popovic at the places he had been caught on camera. He kept coming back to those partial words on Popovic's coffee cup: "affei. . . ow." Doodling on his napkin, he ran through all the possible patterns, discarding each. Suddenly—OH! One finally made sense. The Caffeinated Cow.

He opened a web browser on his phone and discovered that there was a coffee shop with that name on the corner of Stukeley and Neville Roads in Newham. And if Popovic had been heading north on Green Street, then he must have been going to—to—no use: without the mind palace, he couldn't picture which street lay beyond Neville Road. He turned to his phone again, the map app this time. It took some scrolling around, and a bit of annoying zooming in, but eventually he found Shaftesbury Road, which street view showed holding a block of abandoned flats similar to the one Sherlock was staking out right now. Perfect spot. He would have to check it out later, after he had taken down Sprott.

Sure enough, at half past 14:00, Owen Sprott came sauntering down the street, with his hands tucked into his armpits. When he ducked through a broken board in a doorway, Sherlock scooted out of his seat and headed toward the door, leaving his cup behind.

When he reached the door, he saw through the glass that Sprott was already being followed, by Miroslav Popovic. There was no mistaking those bulky shoulders and off-centered nose. This put a wrinkle in things, but nothing he couldn't handle. Sherlock stepped back behind the coat tree until Popovic squeezed through the broken doorway, and then he quickly exited the coffee shop.

There were only a few people on the pavement, and Sherlock stepped around them to the edge of the kerb. He looked to his left where his attention was diverted by something across the street: a tall man with black-rimmed glasses, dressed in a brown suit, leaning against the side of the building, with a boy next to him—the slim, ginger-haired boy from Sherlock's mind palace, there was no mistaking him. And the man was Mr Lindt. The sight distracted Sherlock so much that he stepped into the street without checking to the right for traffic. There was a squeal of brakes and a car honked at him.

The noise drew Sherlock's attention to the right for a second, where he saw a woman through the windshield of a Mini Cooper making a rude gesture at him. When he looked back to the left, he almost expected the man and boy to be gone (it  _had_  to be a figment of the imagination, right?), but they weren't. Now the man's hand was resting on the boy's shoulder _. Hands on his shoulders, nails digging into the flesh, holding him down. Rough carpet makes patterns on his bare knees_ —no stop it stop it please stop no no no. . .

Suddenly Lindt's head swiveled Sherlock's way. When he made eye contact, the man's upper lip curled up into a terrifying smile, exposing vampire fangs dripping with blood.

Sherlock's throat closed up and cut off his air supply. For a moment he stood in the street gasping for breath, and then a shriek pushed its way up through his clenched vocal cords. He scrambled backward, caught a confused glimpse of the wide-eyed driver of the Cooper, then turned and fled.

* * *

A/N: Readers who comment are the BEST!

 


	22. Invisible Vampires and Ginger Haired Boys

 

* * *

Sherlock wasn't even sure how he got back home, but next he knew he was flying up the stairs to 221B Baker Street. His coat was half-off and his scarf was missing, but he didn't care. Trembling and panting, he dashed into the kitchen and snatched up a long knife off the counter. He spun around the kitchen in terror, with the knife held out like a sword, but there was no one there. The flat was empty and undisturbed. The vampire wasn't there. No one was there.

He stood still and listened, but there were no footsteps on the stairs. Everything was quiet. The only sound was his own labored breathing. No vampire. Of course there was no vampire. There had never been a vampire, he told himself sternly, but his body wasn't listening. His heart still insisted on pounding violently in his chest and his lungs refused to fill with air.

Sherlock clutched the knife to his chest and sank down against the cabinets. His shoulders were jerking uncontrollably and his eyes were burning, but that was nothing compared to the fire inside his head. Everything was hazy and confused, like trying to see through thick smoke. Somehow the vampire had escaped from his mind palace and was following him around the city. But that was impossible, right? Except for that first time, after Molly had shoved the bear in his face, but that was a flashback, not a hallucination. It had retreated into his head as soon as he realized what was happening. But this time, it had stayed. He knew the vampire only existed in his mind, but that didn't stop it from  _feeling_  real. The terror he felt certainly was real.

Even now, safe in his kitchen, Sherlock could still see the fangs, could even feel them grazing his neck. He hunched his shoulders and gripped the knife harder.  _Clammy hands stroke his shoulder and down his arm. Teeth close on his neck-_ No stop it no no STOP!

When he pulled his left hand away from the knife to flip up his coat collar (as if that could ward off the teeth), it was red with blood. For a terrifying second he thought his neck was bleeding from a vampire bite, but then he realized that the blood was coming from his hand. He had cut himself on the knife without even being aware of it.

_You're damaged_ , whispered Donovan's voice in his ear.  _Damaged damaged damaged_. . .

Sherlock threw the knife away and it landed with a clatter on the lino. Then he wrapped his right hand tightly around his left, pressed his knuckles hard against his lips and tried desperately to control the trembling. He was going to cry, there was no way around it. He could feel the tears prickling at the backs of his eyeballs. At least it was happening here, now, when he was alone, instead of in front of John or Molly, or—God forbid—Sally Donovan.

* * *

Sherlock allowed his body ten minutes to pull its shit together. Ten minutes of crying like a god-damned  _child_  on the floor of the kitchen, while applying pressure to his hand. Ten minutes turned into thirty, then almost an hour before he was finally under control, before his hands stopped shaking (or at least were shaking  _less_ ) and he could finally force himself to take even breaths.

Once his body was obeying him again, he pulled out his phone awkwardly to text Lestrade where to look for Popovic and Sprott. He should have done it earlier: Sprott was likely dead now (no great loss), but at least the police would have the evidence.

Before he could send the text, he noticed that he had a message from Tracey Sorrell's assistant at the Crown Prosecutors' Office. His scattered mind took a few extra seconds to connect the dots. Sorrell must be contacting him about the Lindt case, and the only way Sorrell would have gotten his name was through Sally Donovan. Sally Donovan who knew he didn't want to testify. Sally Donovan who thought he was a damaged freak. Sally Donovan had sold him out to the only person who detested him more than she herself did.

Sherlock sat for a moment and stared at the message notification. He didn't even have to listen to the message. He already knew what it must say. He should just delete it and move on. But for some reason he didn't.

Shaking his head, he ignored the notification and sent off the text to Lestrade. When that task was done, he hauled out the first aid kit and bandaged the slice across his palm, clumsily with only one hand. John could have done a much better job, but John wasn't there, and Sherlock wasn't exactly in the mood to call him. What was he to say? 'I freaked out and cut my hand on a knife while battling an invisible vampire?' No, that wouldn't exactly go over well. He would have to handle it himself.

Once the bandage had been applied, he stood in his bedroom staring at the loose board where he kept his stash. Just a small hit of heroin, and it would all go away. It would feel so good to just shut everything off for a little while and rest.

Shaking his head firmly, he backed out of his bedroom and shut the door behind him. The drugs may give him some temporary relief, but he needed a real solution. These distracting thoughts were interfering with his work. He needed to process this so that he could control it, and processing would start with re-entering his mind palace, no matter how terrifying it had become. He had to face it.

He lay back on the sofa and tried to tuck his fingertips under his chin, but it hurt to stretch his left hand out straight, so he allowed it to curl. Taking a deep breath, he closed his eyes and forced himself to visualize his mind palace.

The front door was still hanging from its hinges, and a gray layer of smoke hung in the air.  _Damaged_. The mind palace itself did not appear to be charred, however, but it was still dark inside the front hallway. Sherlock attempted to summon up a torch, but again ended up with a candle.

Sheltering the flame with his other hand, he pushed the half-open door out of the way with his elbow and headed down the hall. Along the way he passed several doors that were intact, so not everything was destroyed. There was a bit of smoke damage along the tops of the walls, but it didn't look too serious.

As he approached the turn in the hallway that led to THE room, the smoke damage became more pronounced. Sherlock paused just before the turn. He could hear the sounds of violin music coming from up ahead. The pitch was slightly off, like the instrument had been poorly tuned; the violinist was obviously untrained but showed raw talent. He recognized the second movement from Mozart's Concerto #5.

Taking a deep breath and letting it out through his nose, Sherlock held up the candle and rounded the corner. The door to THE room, which gaped open, was charred and blackened from smoke. Remembering what happened last time he had entered the room, Sherlock shielded the candle with his hand and took a step toward the burnt door. He could feel the temperature increase the closer he got. As he approached, the door appeared to grow in size again until the top of his head only came up as far as the doorhandle.

Taking a deep breath, he slipped around the door and stepped into the room. Instantly his shirt started sticking to his back from sweat in the heat. He held his breath against the smoke.

When he held up the candle, trying to see through the haze, the candlelight revealed a child, the slim boy with short ginger hair that he had seen before, sitting in a wooden chair with his back to him. The boy held a violin in his hands and was scraping the bow over the strings. As Sherlock watched, the boy turned toward him, and suddenly Sherlock recognized him: this was the boy he had seen several times entering Mr Lindt's building while he was on the way out.

The boy held eye contact for a few seconds, then sadly turned away and went back to playing. Sherlock's eyes slid past the boy, scanning around the room for the vampire, and his gaze lit on the bear, now shrunk back down to his regular size, sitting on top of an old-fashioned telly in a cabinet. The bear leered down at him malevolently with its oversized eye.

Sherlock had had enough. He darted back out of the room, slamming the door behind him, and ran down the hallway to find Redbeard. Usually petting Redbeard was enough to chase the demons away, but this time he couldn't get the ginger-haired boy out of his mind. That boy had suffered because he had kept the secret. That boy was paying for his sins. How many other boys were paying as well? How many more would suffer if he continued to refuse to answer Tracey Sorrell's phone calls?

* * *

Molly was doing a preliminary exam on one Owen Sprott (only 31 and nearing liver failure judging by his yellowed eyeballs, although that's not what killed him, according to her initial observations. The huge gash to the throat and massive blood loss appeared to have trumped the cirrhosis) when Sherlock entered the morgue. Oh yes, Tuesday again.

Molly glanced up at him, just enough to make eye contact and give him a once-over, a habit left over from when he was playing dead, when he would randomly show up at her flat with various injuries for her to treat. No obvious broken bones or stab wounds this time, thankfully. He inclined his head in a small nod and held up the sample jar.

"Just set it on the counter," she said, expecting he would immediately turn around and leave, which is what he had done for the past few weeks. "I'll take care of it later." She returned her attention to examining the insides of Sprott's elbows, which were dotted with track marks. A drug dealer who was sampling the merchandise, apparently.

Sherlock didn't leave. Instead he set the jar down and crossed the room toward her. "Ah, just the person I wanted to see."

Of course she was the person he wanted to see. Most people didn't go to the morgue for social hour (well, Sherlock was probably the exception to that rule). The question was  _why_ did he want to see her? He had been avoiding her for weeks - well, maybe not. He claimed everything was fine and that he was just busy. "Everything all right, Sherlock?

"Yes, of course," he responded, quickly enough that she shot him another glance to see if he was lying. He was smiling, but it looked faker than usual. His hands were clasped tightly behind his back, and the smudges under his eyes she had noticed a few weeks ago hadn't gone away: in fact, they had darkened and deepened. He didn't look all right, which worried her. The last time he hadn't looked all right, he had asked her to help him jump off a building.

"Then what do you need?"

"You're working on him. The person I wanted to see."

Molly looked down at the body on the slab. Oh. The  _corpse_  was the person Sherlock had wanted to see, not her. Typical.

"I haven't started the autopsy yet. He was only brought in last night. You can have a look later."

"I won't bother you at all," he said, moving in next to her elbow to examine Sprott's fingernails. "You're looking radiant today, by the way. Nice. . ." (he turned his head enough to glance at what she was wearing under her lab coat) ". . . jumper."

Molly's mouth twisted. Had he always been so obvious? She wasn't sure how she had ever fallen for his blatant manipulation. On the other hand, it was nice to hear the odd compliment out of him, even though she knew what game he was playing. "Just don't touch him, please. What exactly are you looking for?"

"Cause of death, for one thing."

"On initial observation, transection of the carotid artery."

"Of course. Messy but quiet. Won't disturb the neighbors." Sherlock circled the table and looked over the neck area with morbid interest. "Any other cuts? Post-mortem, perhaps?"

"I noticed some marks on the right bicep, looks like they were inflicted immediately post-mortem." Molly folded back the sheet so Sherlock could inspect them.

"You'll take photos of these?"

"Yes, of course."

When Sherlock pulled his magnifier out of his pocket and leaned in to inspect one of the cuts, Molly noticed for the first time that he had a bandage on his left hand, which up until this point had been behind his back. The bandage was crooked and sloppily taped closed.

"What happened to your hand?"

"Hmm? Oh, that? Nothing. It's fine. It was an accident."

"Did John do that bandage?"

"No. Now look at this." He handed her the magnifier and pointed to one of the cuts, so she dutifully took a look. "Definitely a very sharp blade, but not the same one he used to slit the throat."

"That was my initial thought too. I'll take some depth measurements when I do the autopsy." Molly turned the magnifier over in her hand, noticing the corner was chipped and the cover had a scratch on it. "What happened to your magnifier?" she asked, handing it back to him.

He leaned over the cuts again, his nose inches from the dead flesh of Owen Sprott's arm. "Sorry?"

"Your pocket magnifier. It's got a chip in it."

Sherlock suddenly froze. Still bent over, he stared at the magnifier for a long moment, not even breathing.

"Sherlock? What's wrong?"

He blinked and straightened up, clicked the magnifier shut and shoved it into his pocket. "I—I dropped it. It still works."

"Oh. Ok." That seemed odd—those magnifiers were tough; it would take a bit more than a simple drop to chip it. Maybe if he had thrown it against the wall. . . Molly studied him with a frown. His posture was defensive, but she couldn't figure out why. Also, there were spots of what looked like fresh blood on the bandage on his hand. "You're bleeding."

He followed her gaze to the bandage. "It's nothing. I just need to tighten the bandage."

"Would you like me to fix it?"

"No, thank you. I can manage."

"How did you hurt your hand?"

"I told you, it was an accident."

"Seems you've been having quite a lot of those lately."

"No more than usual," he shot back.

"You gave yourself a black eye at my flat—"

"That was your fault," he put in quickly, but she ignored him.

"John said you had a split lip and your feet were cut up. And now you've dropped your magnifier and cut your hand. That seems a little more than usual to me. It makes me think something's wrong." She expected he would give her the brush-off and leave, but instead he stood staring at the far wall.

"Sherlock? Is everything all right?"

The only response was a hard swallow and a series of blinks aimed at the wall. What was going on?

"I haven't seen much of you lately, not since you. . . took off out of my flat. You haven't really seemed yourself lately. Can you tell me what's up?"

Sherlock's bandaged left hand came up in front of his mouth, knuckles resting lightly against his lips. She had seen that move from him before, when he didn't want to tell her something. He was trying to keep the words in, Molly realized. There was something he didn't want to tell her, but what was it about? Something about the flashback he had had at her flat? Maybe something painful that had happened while he was dead, or maybe - in his childhood? But what?

I just want to know you're all right. I'm worried about you."

There was a long pause. Molly stayed silent, determined to wait him out, and finally her patience was rewarded. "If I—" he broke off, cleared his throat and started again. "If I knew something, something that could prevent someone else getting hurt, and I never told anyone, would it be my fault?"

This seemed to be a rather abrupt change of topic, but she knew it must be related somehow, in a way that only made sense in Sherlock's mind. "I suppose it depends," she said finally.

"Depends on what?"

Molly took a shot in the dark. "Well, it depends if you were in a position to do anything about it. If you were a child. . ."

He shook his head. "But I'm not a child anymore, am I?"

"Is there something you can do about it now?"

He didn't answer that. His knuckles tapped his lips. "Molly, do you think I'm damaged?" he asked finally, eyes flitting to hers and then away again. His tone was light. What did that question mean? Damaged how?

"I think—I think we're all damaged, Sherlock. What matters is what we do with it."

He continued to stare at the far wall, his cheek twitching slightly. What did he mean by damaged? John had told her that he seemed fine. Whatever he had seen in her flat appeared to be gone and he was all right. She had suspected something else was up, but John wouldn't say anything more.

"Have you—have you seen any more vampires, Sherlock?"

There was a fleeting jerk of his shoulders. Still that silent staring at the wall. Oh, she had nailed it.

"Sherlock? Have you?"

His eyes cut to the side. "Only a couple of times," he muttered under his breath.

"A couple of times?"

He took a noisy breath and brought his shoulders up. "It's not important, Molly. Everything is under control."

"Have you talked to John about this?"

"Yes, yes, he knows everything. I've told you you needn't worry. Now if you'll excuse me, I need to compare some photos. Must fly." He scooted past her and out of the morgue before she had time to protest.

She was naturally concerned that he was still seeing vampires (how many times? What were they doing?), but if Sherlock was telling the truth that John knew about it, then it was probably all right. John was an expert at taking care of Sherlock when no one else could.

Hmm, if Sherlock was telling the truth. . . She made a mental note to call John in the next few days to check, because Sherlock Holmes' definition of "truth" was often different to hers.


	23. Telling vs. Telling everything, Take 2

* * *

This chapter is sort of brutal. I apologize in advance.

* * *

 

Donovan was expecting the call from Mycroft Holmes, but she didn't answer because she knew what he was going to say, and she didn't feel she could give him an adequate response. His message was terse. "Why is my brother receiving phone calls from the Crown Prosecutors' office? This is not what we agreed to." She was terrified to call him back. What could she say? It was quite beyond her control, but that didn't stop the lump of guilt that settled in her gut like a rock.

So she was quite surprised when Tracey Sorrell texted her on Wednesday morning that Sherlock was coming in for an interview later that day. She was not so surprised to learn that under no circumstances did he want her in the room while the interview was taking place. Of course he didn't want her there, any more than she wanted to be there. And if the situation were reversed, she the victim and he the investigator, she would not have tolerated his presence either.

Now Donovan was watching quietly from the observation room, finger and thumb rubbing over the pendant at her throat, while Sherlock talked to Lestrade and Sorrell. Sherlock's hand was bandaged, which made her curious. At least the black eye and swollen lip had healed.

Donovan wondered if Sherlock knew that Sorrell hated him much more than Donovan ever had. Yes, he probably did. For all his claims to be a sociopath, Sherlock was remarkably perceptive in some ways. And that dislike appeared to be mutual, judging by how the conversation was going, but at least Sherlock hadn't stood up and left the room yet.

"Tell us how you met Rainer Lindt," Sorrell asked. It seemed to be an ordinary request, but there was a little smirk on Sorrell's lips that didn't quite match her tone.

"He was my violin teacher. I thought that would be obvious."

"Pretend like you are telling the jury. They don't know any of the facts of the case."

"Then they're idiots, as it's been all over the papers."

Sorrell shot Lestrade an exasperated look, but the ghost of a smile was still there, just for an instant. "Just take us through it, please. How old were you?"

"Six."

"And how long were you his student?"

"Seven months, from end of November 1982 to mid-June 1983."

"And tell us what he did to you." Sorrell was looking down at her paperwork while she said that.

There was a pause. Donovan saw Sherlock glance briefly at the one-way mirror and swallow hard. Sorrell looked up, her narrowed eyes fixed on Sherlock's face, which had gone back to a neutral expression. "Mr Holmes, we need your statement."

"Don't you have this all on videotape? I can confirm that the child in question is indeed me."

"The jury needs to hear it from you." Sorrell's voice was smug. She checked the voice recorder in the middle of the table and pushed it a little closer to Sherlock.

"What do you want to know?"

"Everything."

Sherlock sat back in his seat and said "Fine," in an unconcerned, flippant voice. "He removed my clothing. He touched me inappropriately."

"On the genitals?"

"Yes, among other places."

"Penetration?" There was a small, cruel twinkle in Sorrell's eyes that made Donovan's chest hurt.

"Yes." Sherlock's voice was still perfectly unruffled.

"Anal?"

"Yes."

"Oral?"

Sherlock didn't answer. He was staring into the one-way mirror, directly at Donovan, she thought. Just like Johnny Blue-Eyes had stared at the camera. Oh God. Donovan's stomach did a painful flip-flop and she squeezed the pendant harder, until the hard metal folds of Saint Monica's dress left indentations in her fingers. Traumatized little boy staring at a teddy bear, she reminded herself. He may have gotten bigger, but was that trauma still there, buried somewhere under his tough, untouchable facade?

"Mr Holmes, did he force you to perform oral sex on him?"

Sherlock blinked. "Yes." He was clearly aiming for the flippant tone he had been using before, but he didn't quite manage it. Donovan's eyes widened and her hand flew over her mouth. She had never seen that on the tape. It must have been in the section she hadn't had the nerve to watch.

Sorrell picked up her pen and put it to her notepad. "Penetration with an object?" she asked in a casual tone.

Another pause, then Sherlock bit out, "yes." He was staring blankly at the window again. Donovan pressed her hand harder against her mouth and looked anywhere but at him. Even though she knew he couldn't see her, it still felt like a violation to make eye contact, because she knew he wouldn't want her watching.

Sorrell scribbled a note on her notepad. "Did your parents know what was happening?"

"No, they never asked and I didn't tell them."

"Why did you not tell anyone about this before now?"

"I didn't remember. I deleted it. Or at least I thought I did."

"You. . .  _deleted_  it? What do you mean?"

"From my mind palace. I locked it away."

"Mind palace?" Sorrell shot a quizzical look at Lestrade.

"It's a memory technique—" Lestrade put in, but Sherlock interrupted him.

"It is an organization system for the mind. The Method of Loci, adapted from the Greek philosopher Quintilian."

Sorrell was giving him a skeptical look. Donovan heard a slight sigh and then he changed tacks. "You may think of it as a computer hard drive. The file was deleted, but apparently recoverable."

Sorrell pounced. "So it was suppressed due to trauma? How did you feel when he raped you?"

"How do you think I felt?"

"I need to hear it from you."

"It hurt. I bled. Is that what you want to know?"

"Emotionally, how did you feel?"

"I didn't feel anything."

"Oh, come on, Mr Holmes. You were six years old and you were raped repeatedly. You can't tell me you felt nothing."

Sherlock's calm cracked a little. "I've already told you!" His hands, which had been resting on the table, clenched tightly into fists.

Lestrade, who had been sitting on the edge of his chair, interrupted. "He's answered your questions. He told you what happened. That's enough for today."

"I need more details."

"Not now," Lestrade said firmly. "He's agreed to testify. We can continue this another time."

Sorrell's face was a mask of barely contained glee, but Lestrade was looking at Sherlock, and Sherlock was looking down at his clenched fists on the table, so Donovan was the only one who saw it. Sorrell gathered up her papers, shoved them into her file folder and left.

A second later, Donovan heard the doorknob on the observation room turn and Sorrell entered.

"Ah, Sally."

"Tracey," Sally responded coolly, barely sparing her a glance. Her attention was still focused on Lestrade and Sherlock, who hadn't moved from their seats in the interview room. Lestrade was talking softly while Sherlock stared blankly at the wall.

"I take it you saw all of that."

"Oh, yes I did."

"Good. I've seen the video, but I'll need photos of the assault for trial. Pick some video clips as well."

"Of the—of the actual sexual assault?" Donovan asked, heart sinking.

"Yes, the more detail the better. Get me some shots of him naked. Let's show them everything."

"He was six! Do you really want to show that at trial?"

"We need the evidence, Sergeant Donovan. You know that."

"But he was a victim!

"He's not a  _victim_." The corner of Sorrell's lip was raised in a snarl. "Did you ever find your leak?"

"It's taken care of."

"Hm, pity. It would be a shame if his name got out to the media."

Donovan was shocked. She knew Sorrell didn't like Sherlock, that she was still angry for the way he had made her look incompetent during Moriarty's trial, but she hadn't thought the woman would take it that far. Donovan had actually felt some sympathy for Sorrell after Sherlock had embarrassed her in front of the judge and the press. Sorrell could lose her job this time if it was found out that she'd intentionally leaked a victim's name to the media.

While Donovan was trying to think of something to say that would make her change her mind, Sorrell, who was staring at Sherlock through the one-way glass, continued in a pensive voice. "I wonder if I could get him to cry on the stand."

"No!"

"Hmm. . . probably not. He didn't even cry while he was being raped. Heartless bastard. Just staring into the camera defiantly."

Donovan felt as if something heavy were sitting on her windpipe. What would Sorrell do if she knew that he  _had_  cried, that he had wept as if his heart were broken? Would she have some sympathy for him? No, Donovan was sure that Sorrell would use the knowledge to eviscerate him.

"I think I'll asked my assistant to make an appointment with his mother. Would you like to sit in on that interview? I'll bet we could make her cry."

Donovan stared at her in horror. Oh, Mycroft Holmes was going to have her killed now; would probably kill them both, maybe even do it himself with his bare hands.

Sorrell, who was still watching Sherlock through the one-way mirror with a small, cruel smile, said, "I'm planning to schedule him for an exam as well. Maybe there will be scar tissue. You can take photos."

"I—I don't think there'll be scar tissue. We shouldn't do that to him."

"Oh? I thought you would enjoy that. He nearly sank your career as well, didn't he? With his little game he played on us."

"I admit there's never been any love lost between him and me, but you've got me wrong if you think I would enjoy humiliating a victim like that. It's not right."

"Don't be ridiculous. We need corroborating evidence for his testimony. All we have is his word for it that that's even him on that tape and that Lindt was his violin teacher. His mother can back up that part of it, and the exam would give us evidence of sexual assault. Penetration with an object might leave scarring. If we could prove that, it would mean more charges for Lindt."

Donovan shook her head. "Come on, Sorrell. Leave him alone."

"I can't believe you're not on board with this, Donovan. You've already done enough damage to this case. Don't destroy what's left of it out of some sort of misplaced sympathy for that man. I guarantee he wouldn't throw you a rope if you were drowning. I'll phone you when I've got the exam scheduled."

Sorrell turned and left. Donovan could hear her heels clicking angrily on the lino before the door closed behind her. With mind whirling, Donovan returned her attention to Sherlock and Lestrade, who were still talking in the interview room.

"Are you sure it's all right?" Lestrade was asking in what Donovan thought of as his 'Papa Greg' voice—just the right mix of soothing and concern. It was the voice that got hardened criminals to open up and pour out their hearts. But it had no obvious effect on Sherlock.

"Of course it's all right. I've already agreed."

"It's just that you sounded a little—"

"I assure you, this. . . incident was in the past. I've processed it. There's no cause for concern."

"Yeah, ok. I'm sorry. It's just I don't want you getting hurt." Lestrade looked down at his notebook, where Donovan could see he had written almost nothing. While he was looking down, Donovan saw Sherlock's unconcerned expression dissolve. Just for a split second, she was looking at Johnny Blue-Eyes' completely devastated face. Then, just as suddenly as it had appeared, the devastation was gone and the mask was back in place.

"You needn't worry about that. I can take care of myself. Now, what have you got on Owen Sprott's murder?"

"Oh, uh - Waiting for autopsy results. You're sure it was Popovic?"

"Yes, I've told you already. I saw him following Sprott."

"I still don't understand why you didn't notify me right away."

"It wasn't convenient for me to do so." Sherlock stood up, took up his coat and scarf from the back of the chair next to him, and said, "I'll text you when I've tracked Popovic down for you."

"Sherlock, don't go getting yourself into trouble."

"Never," he said flippantly. While he was putting on his coat, he shot a glance at the one-way glass and his lip curled up just a tiny bit at the corner into the slightest sneer. Then he popped his collar and headed out the door with his back straight and his head high.

Donovan sat back in her chair. She knew, of course, that he knew she was watching. That sneer was for her, his little parting gift. It was meant to convince her that he was still his old self. Unconcerned. Unbothered. But was he? She knew the answer to that question. It was as plain as the tears running down Johnny Blue-eyes' face. He had said he hadn't felt anything, but that was clearly a lie. She had seen Sherlock break.

The door to the observation room opened and Lestrade entered. "Well, that was about as awful as I expected," he said, shaking his head. "And it's only going to get worse."

"We can't let her put him on the stand."

"Did Mycroft Holmes phone you too? Sherlock calls his own shots, and he decided to come in of his own free will. Mycroft won't stop him."

Donovan shook her head anxiously. "That's not what I'm talking about. We can't do this to him."

What do you mean? He's all right. It's not easy for him, of course, but he'll be fine."

Donovan shook her head more firmly. "He's lying when he says he felt nothing."

"I don't think so. I know he's good at faking it, but he'll make it through."

"You didn't see."

"See what? I was sitting right there in the room with him. I saw everything you saw."

"He's barely holding it together. If they put him on the stand, make him tell the world what that piece of shit did to him, he'll fall apart."

"I know him better than you do, and I've seen him at his worst. He always bounces back. It would take a lot to break Sherlock Holmes."

"Boss, you don't get it. You don't see."

"Tell me, Donovan, what am I missing?"

"He's already broken; you just have to push in the right place. And Tracey Sorrell would love to be the one doing the pushing. After he ruined their case against Moriarty. . ."

"Tracey is a professional. She wouldn't do that on purpose."

"Yes she would! She asked me for screenshots of the rape. She wanted photos of him naked. He was six years old, for Christ's sake!"

"She won't use those at trial."

"You know she will. You know how this will go. She's going to start pushing, and he'll push back, then she'll treat him as hostile and rip him to shreds."

Now Lestrade was shaking his head, his hand on the doorknob. "It won't come to that. Tracey won't risk her career for revenge. He'll be fine. Now I'll see you later, yeah? I gotta go see about an autopsy."

"Yeah, all right." After Lestrade left, Donovan sat for several minutes in the dark, staring at the empty interview room. What a mess, and all she could think was that it was all her fault.


	24. Pushing in the Right Place

John was sitting on the bench outside of the entrance to the Yard when Sherlock walked out, with his coat wrapped tightly around himself and scarf firmly in place, even though the sun had finally come out and the temperature was rising. John himself was wearing only a light jumper and jeans. It practically felt like summer.

He only knew that Sherlock was coming in to give his statement today because Greg had called him. Sherlock himself hadn't mentioned a word, which didn't surprise John in the slightest. Possibly he was embarrassed about it, but most likely he thought it unimportant. 'Oh, just going in to tell the police all about how I was raped as a child. Nothing to concern yourself about, best friend.'

He never saw Sherlock actually look at him, but he slowed when he got to the corner and John was able to catch up. John came abreast of him and was about to greet him when Sherlock spoke first.

"Ah, John, care to have an adventure?"

"What sort of ad—Wait—how'd it go?"

"Hmm? How'd what go?"

"Your interview."

"Oh, that. Fine. It's not important. We're going to track down Popovic." Sherlock started across the street without looking for traffic. John quickly looked both ways, determined their lives weren't in danger, and hurried after.

"Now?"

"Yes, since you've not got a baby strapped to your chest at the moment, I think now would be a good time." Sherlock held up his left hand to hail a taxi, and John caught a glimpse of a bandage wound around it.

"What happened to your hand?"

"It's nothing. I'm fine. A small cut." The cab pulled up to the kerb and Sherlock opened the door for John. "After you."

"You cut yourself?"

"It was an accident."

"Bandaged it yourself, did you?" John slid over on the seat and waited for Sherlock to climb in after him.

"Yes." Sherlock leaned into the front window and gave the cabbie an address in east London, then climbed into the back beside John.

"Should have called me. Your fingers look a bit pale. Let me see."

"It's fine."

"Don't be silly." John caught Sherlock's left hand and turned it over palm-up, inspecting the bandage. Sherlock sighed dramatically but let John examine his hand with a long-suffering air.

The bandage looked a bit tight. John squeezed the base of Sherlock's index finger and held on tight when Sherlock tried to pull his hand away.

"Ouch. Stop that."

"In a second. Ok, see? Slow capillary refill. You've got to loosen that bandage a bit."

"It had to be tight to stop the bleeding.

"When did you cut yourself?"

"Two days ago."

"And it's still bleeding? You probably need stitches."

"I don't need stitches. Here, I'll loosen the bandage a bit. It's fine." Sherlock peeled the surgical tape from the end of the bandaged and re-affixed it a bit looser. "There, see? No problem."

"You should let me have a look at it."

"No! John, I'm not a child! Stop treating me like one!"

John snorted and shook his head, turning to look out the window so Sherlock wouldn't see the annoyance in his eyes.

"What?

"Those words sound familiar."

Sherlock just scowled at him as the cab came to a stop in what looked like a rather sketchy area of Newham. John hadn't been paying close enough attention to know exactly where they were, but with the amount of boarded up windows and trash on the streets, it was enough to make him wish he had brought his pistol. He didn't suppose the cabbie would let him borrow his tyre lever, either.

"You really want out here?" The cabbie asked. John could see in the rear view mirror that his eyebrows were raised skeptically.

"Yes, thank you. Pay the man, John." Sherlock climbed out without a backward glance, leaving John to struggle along after and try to find the right bills in his wallet. He finally just ended up shoving a twenty pound note at the man and not waiting for change, because Sherlock was already half-way down the block and John did not fancy getting left behind again.

A few steps on Sherlock ducked into an alleyway so quickly that John almost lost him. He jogged the rest of the way down the pavement and ducked in beside him.

"Tell me again why we're here?"

"Popovic is bunking in that block of flats." Sherlock gestured across the street. John peered around the corner dubiously at the building opposite, which looked entirely derelict. All of the windows were broken and the doorways were either hanging open or boarded up. John didn't see how anyone could be living in there without dying of exposure.

"That one? Are you sure?"

"Yes. Now shut up. I'm thinking."

John snorted and looked away, down the street to his left. It was completely empty: no cars, no people, no noises coming from windows. Clouds had rolled in during their cab ride, and now obscured the sun and cast an ominous pall over the scene. The emptiness was eerie enough to send a shiver down John's spine. As he turned to scan the other direction, he realized that Sherlock was muttering under his breath.

"What was that?"

"I didn't say anything."

"Yes you did. You were mumbling."

"I wasn't talking to you. Now be quiet and stop distracting me."

John fell silent, but he kept watching Sherlock out of the corner of his eye. Sherlock was looking to his left, toward the abandoned block of flats, but occasionally he would quickly cut his gaze to his right, mutter something with a quick shake of his head, and turn back to his left again. His right shoulder twitched.

John scanned the street to the right, looking for what Sherlock could find so fascinating, but all he could see was a lonely busker on the corner, holding the silhouette of a violin. He could barely even hear the music, something classical that John didn't recognize.

When Sherlock did the little head turn-shake-twitch thing for the fourth time, John asked, "Are you all right?"

"Yes, I'm fine."

"Are you sure? Because you seem a bit. . . twitchy."

"I just don't like waiting. It's boring."

Really? This from the man who could sit perfectly still and stare at the wall for hours? "Then let's talk."

"I don't want to talk."

"Then what do you want to do?"

Sherlock turned to look at John. "I want to look for Miroslav Popovic, and you're distracting—" He suddenly broke off. He appeared to be staring at something over John's right shoulder, but when John turned to look, he could see nothing there, just an empty street. He turned back and saw that Sherlock's eyes were wide. His breathing was loud and far too fast, shoulders jerking with each noisy inhalation.

"Sherlock? Are you all right?"

Sherlock didn't respond, just rubbed at his eyes with the heels of his hands and kept staring down the street at nothing.

"What's wrong?"

"NOTHING!" Sherlock responded in a harsh whisper.

"Then what are you looking at? There's nothing there!" Suddenly, around Sherlock's arm, John spotted a man ducking out of a doorway from the abandoned building across the street: broad shoulders, black jacket with the collar flipped up, black watchcap. "Hey, look there," he whispered. "Is that him?"

Sherlock shook his head hard. "No, I was wrong. There's nothing here."

"But you didn't even look."

"There's nothing here. Let's go." Sherlock brushed past John and headed down the alleyway, away from the direction they had come, leaving John staring dumbly across the street at the man in black, who had pulled his cap low and was now striding away down the sidewalk with his hands tucked into his pockets.

John turned back down the alley to find that Sherlock had disappeared around a corner. "Hey!" he hissed. "Wait for me, you plonker!" He hustled around the bend to discover that Sherlock had hopped a low fence and was already out on the next street (which was not so deserted as the one they had been staking out) hailing a cab.

"Oy, Sherlock! I'm right here." But Sherlock appeared not to hear. A cab pulled up, he got in, and it sped off without John. "Aw, fuck it. I thought we were past this!"

John pulled out his phone and dialed Sherlock's number, but it went to voicemail after four rings. He had well and truly been left behind. So now he had a choice: chuck it and go home, or try to track Sherlock down. In an unfamiliar section of London. In the drizzle with evening approaching. Damn Sherlock for putting him in this situation!

Resigned to his fate, John hailed his own cab and directed the cabby to take him to Baker Street. Might as well start where Sherlock was most likely to turn up, right?

* * *

Sherlock was a twitchy mess in the cab. Twice he caught the cabby shooting him anxious glances, and when he spotted a glimpse of his own face reflected in the window, he could understand why. His eyes were rimmed with red and looked a bit wild, his hair was sticking up where he had been running his hands through it, and the muscle in his jaw was twitching from grinding his teeth. His knee was jumping in a staccato beat that he had no control over. Neither could he control the sensation that clammy hands were sliding all over his skin, nor that his mind was replaying Mozart's Concert No. 5 on an endless loop. It was all the fault of that damnable busker. The music had distracted him from his focus on finding Popovic, and then when he had looked the other direction and spotted the vampire, all thoughts of the case had flown from his mind. He just needed to get away as quickly as possible, from the music, from the vampire, and from John and his prying questions.

He had the cabby let him off a block from Baker Street, on Melcombe Street, then watched around the corner as John's cab pulled up. John jumped out and went in, and then came out a minute later looking very put out, just as Sherlock had predicted he would.

As soon as John had jumped back into the cab and had turned the corner, he practically ran down the street and into 221, up the stairs to his flat, ignoring Mrs Hudson's cry of "There you are, Sherlock!" He could barely hear her over the music that went round and round in his head.

Once inside, he slammed the door and locked it, as if that could keep the vampire out. Nothing could keep the vampire out. Nothing he did could silence the music or keep the hands off his skin. Nothing nothing nothing. He was helpless, and he hated it. It made him want to smash things, just to feel powerful, to feel he had control over something.

His eyes fell on his violin, sitting on the stand by the window. As soon as he saw it, his skin began to crawl anew.

" _You play so beautifully, Sherlock. You're my best student. So talented." Hands slide down his sides. "I love you." Teeth graze his neck while Mozart's concerto No. 5 swells around him. He can taste the tears that track down his face and into his mouth. Blood is running down the inside of his leg. "Don't cry, my love. I didn't mean to hurt you. I'll make it better. I want to show you how much I love you."_

Sherlock was suddenly seized with an overwhelming need to smash his violin, just to make the music stop. He shoved his hands into the pockets of his coat to keep them from seizing the violin, and his fingers closed around the pocket magnifier. Immediately that tape began to play _: bright paper, hands over his hands sliding the black plastic open to reveal the clear bubble inside. "I can't wait to see what you observe with this. You're so clever."_  STOP JUST STOP PLEASE!

Sherlock yanked the magnifier from his pocket, threw it to the ground and stomped on it, hard. The plastic cracked under his foot. As soon as he heard the crunch, he stopped in disbelief, just for a moment. Had he really just smashed his magnifier? He lifted his foot and stared at the splinters of black plastic. Fear, shame, and despair bubbled painfully in his chest, but they were mixed with an almost palpable sense of relief. He had power, even if it was to destroy.

If smashing something small like the magnifier had helped him overcome the powerless feeling, then maybe smashing something bigger would help even more. He crossed to his music stand and snatched up his violin. With trembling hands, he raised it over his head to smash it, and then he froze. What the hell was he doing? He couldn't break his violin; he loved it. In fact, sometimes he thought it was the  _only_  thing that he loved. Destroying it didn't make him powerful. If he destroyed his violin because of what Mr Lindt did, then Mr Lindt still had the power to control his actions.

Shaking hard, Sherlock carefully set the violin on the stand and backed away. There was no escape. Lindt had won. He would never be free.

With a savage cry of despair, he grabbed the lamp off the side table and threw it at the floor. The lightbulb shattered with a POP, and pieces of glass flew in all different directions, one slicing a gouge into his cheek.

Sherlock stood trembling in the middle of the rubble, his breath coming in quick, shallow gasps. Smoke. He smelled smoke. He spun around and discovered a curl of gray coming up from the remnants of the lightbulb. Without even thinking he stomped on the broken glass until it stopped smoldering.

When the danger was over, he slowly turned and surveyed the carnage. Bits of broken glass and plastic littered most of the sitting room, and the carpet was now blackened where the hot bulb had singed the fibers. Why had he done that? Any feeling of empowerment had now faded, and all he felt was regret.

He spotted his violin, still sitting safely on the stand. His violin! Oh, thank god he hadn't destroyed it too. He picked his way over to it through the glass, carefully picked it up, and sat down in a clear area with the instrument cradled in his arms. He noticed peripherally that his hand was bleeding through the bandage, and a trickle of something warm was oozing down his cheek, but he decided to ignore it. John could handle it when he returned. Even though the fire in the carpet was out, he could still smell the smoke and feel it swirling around him. Since there was no smoke in the flat, it must be in his mind palace. The fire that he had started with the lantern was still smoldering.

John would be coming back; he knew he would. Mrs Hudson was probably calling him already. He had only a few minutes to pull his shit together and get his body back under control. He thought yearningly of the baggie of heroin stashed under the floorboards in his bedroom. Just one hit, and he could forget all about the fire, and the hands, and the ginger-haired boy. But John was coming, and John would know he was high. He didn't mind John being disappointed in him—it had happened before. No, what he was afraid of was that John would turn around and walk out, leaving him to face this alone, and he didn't think he could do that. But he couldn't live like this either. He would have to go back into his mind palace to put out the fire; there was no way around it.

Sherlock tightened his grip on his violin, closed his eyes and approached his mind palace. The front door was still off its hinges, which no longer surprised him. His mind still was unable to conjure up a torch, and in fact he ended up with a small lighter as his only light source.

Holding the lighter up, he crept inside, keeping low to stay under the smoke, which was thin near the doorway, but thickened as he ventured down the hall. The lighter wasn't much help, so he resorted to running his hand along the wall to guide his uncertain steps.

He found the turn that led to The Door, but the smoke was even thicker here. He could make out that it was creeping out from under and around The Door. His hand on the wall was becoming uncomfortably warm. There was no way he was going to be able to enter that room, not without risking significant harm, not to mention making the fire spreading more quickly.

Sherlock put one arm over his mouth to keep the smoke out. He had only one thought at that moment: rescue Redbeard before the damn mind palace burned down around his ears.

With that in mind, he turned to head down the hall toward Redbeard's room, when suddenly the smoke parted and he caught a glimpse of the ginger-haired boy standing about fifty meters away, down the hallway back toward the entrance. He was wearing a green school jumper and carried a black bookbag over his shoulder. Sherlock stared, frozen in place, and a new tape started playing.

_He is standing on a walkway in front of the school, wearing gray shorts and a green jumper, knapsack on his back. A press of green surrounds him—other children, almost all taller, waiting for their parents after school._

_The crowds part and Sherlock can suddenly see down the walkway where the ginger-haired boy is standing unmoving, staring at him. For a moment they lock eyes and Sherlock feels a sudden flash of fear and shame. This boy knows his secret._

_A warmth spreads across the front of his shorts. He looks down to discover that he is standing in a puddle. He has wet his pants._

_He feels a tug on his arm and looks up to see his mother standing over him. Her smile turns into a frown when she sees the dark splotch on the front of his shorts. "My goodness, Sherlock. You should have told someone you needed the toilet!"_

A bark coming from down the hallway brought Sherlock out of the unwanted memory. Redbeard! "Come here, boy!" he commanded. There was a whining and scratching sound, but no dog appeared. When he tried to run down the hall to find him, he was driven back by the heat and smoke. Finally he was forced to dash toward the exit, past the ginger-haired boy, and out the door.


	25. Telling vs Telling Everything, Take 3

* * *

Sherlock wasn't at Baker Street. He also wasn't at Angelo's, or St Bart's, or Molly's flat, or any of the other boltholes that John knew about. So where the hell had he gone? There must be another bolthole somewhere, a little place that only Sherlock knew about, where he had gone to hide (maybe Mrs Hudson was right about one of the boltholes being behind the clock face of Big Ben—John hadn't felt like climbing up to check). But why? He had seemed fine—well, maybe a bit twitchy and on edge, but not likely to bolt. It frustrated John that he didn't know what was going on inside Sherlock's head, and that Sherlock hadn't turned to him for help when he needed it.

When John was nearly out of money for cabs, he sat on a park bench next to the greenhouse in Kew Gardens and texted Sherlock for the dozenth time.  **Where the hell are you?**

There was no response. After five minutes, John texted him again.  **If I don't hear from you in five minutes, I'm contacting Mycroft.**

Five more agonizing minutes passed. John spent the time texting Mary to let her know what was going on and asking if she knew of any other boltholes. Her only response was  _Leinster Gardens?_

**Already checked there.**

_Then I'm out of ideas. I'll let you know if he turns up here._

When the five minutes were up, John reluctantly sent a text to Mycroft.

**Your brother took off. I don't know where he went.**

The response came across almost instantly, just one word:  _Looking_.

**We were somewhere in Newham borough when he bolted, if that helps.**

_Got him entering Baker Street ten minutes ago._

Dammit! Of course he would show up there now, when John had already left and it would cost him almost ten pounds to get back. The tube was cheaper but it would take too long—too much risk Sherlock would take off again in the meantime. Shaking his head, he texted back  **Have you got eyes on the inside of the flat?**

_No, he keeps finding the cameras._

**Ok, ta. I'll look there.**

_Let me know if you need help._

He was about to tuck his phone back into his pocket when it started ringing.  **Incoming call from Mrs Hudson**. With a knowing sigh, he punched the answer button.

"Hello, Mrs Hudson. He's turned up, has he?"

"Oh, John! He's here, but he's a right mess. I keep hearing him shouting and banging about up there. I wanted to go up and see if I can help, but I'm afraid I'll end up with something chucked at my head."

John considered, just for a moment, what would happen if he  _didn't_  go. He had just one lonely ten pound note left in his wallet, which was only enough for cab fare one way. He could either use it to go to Baker Street, and probably get the cold shoulder (or worse) for his efforts; or he could use it to get home, where Mary was waiting for him, and his daughter would be snuggly and sweet-smelling fresh from the bath. Oh, it was so tempting just to go home and snog his wife and forget about Sherlock Holmes for once. But where would that leave Mrs Hudson?

"John, are you coming back?" Mrs Hudson's voice quavered.

"Y—yes, Mrs Hudson, I'll be back in about fifteen minutes. Just hold tight. And don't go up there. I don't want to have to treat you for concussion when I arrive."

"All right, John. Thank you, dear."

"Don't mention it."

When he got to Baker Street, Mrs Hudson met him at the door with a plate of homemade biscuits. "He's quiet now. It's almost worse."

"Thanks, Mrs Hudson," John said automatically, taking a biscuit and looking up the stairs. No music this time, melancholy or not. The silence was almost eerie. John's thoughts immediately went to where they always went these days when he hadn't heard from Sherlock: worry that he was dead on the floor in a pool of blood. . . God, just STOP IT, he told himself sternly. Just because he wasn't currently raising a ruckus didn't mean he was dead, for pity's sake! It just meant the temper tantrum was over and he was probably asleep with his thumb hanging out of his mouth like the giant toddler that he was.

John headed up the stairs slowly, counting them out in his head like he always did (well, at least as he had done ever since Sherlock had chided him for not knowing the number of steps). Somehow, the fact that the number of stairs never changed was reassuring. One of the immutable laws of the universe. The earth goes 'round the sun, rubbish pick-up is Tuesdays, and there are seventeen steps leading up to 221B Baker Street.

When he reached the top landing, he hesitated a moment before knocking on the door, listening, but he heard nothing. He knocked quietly once, twice. No answer. Tried the knob. Locked. Sherlock never locked the door. He usually didn't even close it. Luckily John still had a key.

"Sherlock? I'm coming in," he called in a clear but calm voice. There was no response.

John unlocked the door and carefully pushed it open a crack, calling "Sherlock?" There was still no answer, so he pushed the door the rest of the way open and discovered Sherlock sitting on the floor beside the green chair with his violin lying across his lap. The shattered remains of a table lamp lay strewn across the floor around him. His cheek was bloody, he was holding his left hand with his right, and John could see spots of bright red on the bandage as well.

* * *

Sherlock didn't look up when John entered. He didn't need to. John's footsteps told it all. How slowly he took the stairs, how his steps stopped when he opened the door. John had seen the blood, obviously. If he didn't look up, perhaps John would stay focused on the blood and not see that Sherlock's eyes were red and his hands were trembling.

"You see, John? I told you the bandage needed to be tighter." Sherlock was aiming for a light tone and almost managed it, except for the way his voice cracked at the end. Couldn't be helped. Maybe John wouldn't notice.

Of course, John did notice, obviously, by the sound he made, which could have been either a laugh or sob, or possibly both. "Sherlock, you idiot."

The tone was affectionate, so maybe John had forgiven him for taking off and leaving him behind? Or was there anger behind those words? For all his powers of observation, that was one detail he knew he sometimes missed, especially when it came to John. He always realized too late when John was seething. Sometimes he didn't catch on until he got a fist to the face.

Sherlock risked a glance to check John's face for tension, but John was already moving past him to the kitchen, stepping carefully around the shards of glass from the broken lamp. Sherlock could hear cupboard doors opening and closing, then he returned carrying a red bag. First aid kit.

John knelt beside him and opened the kit, laid out antibiotic ointment, rolls of bandages, scissors, tape. Sherlock watched him out of the side of his eye, wondering at what point John would start in on the lecture.

He felt a pressure lift as John gently took the violin from his lap. The instrument moved up and out of his field of vision. Yes, probably better for it to be out of reach, in case he felt the need to smash something else.

"What did the lamp ever do to you?" John asked. His tone was light too. Still playing along. Still too little data to deduce exactly how angry he was.

"It was a better option than breaking the violin." He squeezed his eyes shut, where the image of the violin was burned on his retinas.  _Big hands over his, moving his fingers on the strings. Lips graze his neck—_ No stop it now please please please. . .

"Oh. Yes, I suppose so." The sound of a plastic package being cut open, then John said matter-of-factly, "I'm going to touch your face now."

He felt John's warm fingers on his cheek, gently probing the new injury. After the cut on his cheek had been sealed up with steristrips, John said, "Now I'm going to see to your hand." He took Sherlock's cold hand in his warm ones and carefully unwrapped the bandage.  _Hands slide down his back it hurts it hurts please stop please stop. . ._ Sherlock held very still, barely breathing as he attempted to chase away the crawling sensation all over his skin. It would be better to open his eyes, he decided. Watching John work would distract him from what was happening in his head.

John made a little tutting noise and shook his head when he saw the wound. "When did you say this happened?"

"Day before yesterday."

"Hmm. . . should get some stitches in there. Should have done already."

"No need. Just bandage it up. . . please," he tacked on belatedly.

"Well, I can seal it up with steristrips, but I can't guarantee it will heal properly," John said. He picked up the plastic package again and used tweezers to remove a steristrip from it. Sherlock stared at the broken lamp while he worked, the evidence of his lack of self-control. His inability to put out the fire that smoldered in his mind palace.

He wasn't even aware that John had finished his work until he felt a hand pat his shoulder. Touching him.  _No no no no nononono!_  His mind rebelled, and his body reacted instantly, before he could stop it, by flinching violently away.

"Oh. Sherlock, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to. . ." John shifted until he was sitting cross-legged on the floor facing Sherlock. "Sherlock, are you . . What happened back there? I need to know."

Sherlock's head was pounding. Everything was smoky in there. He couldn't see clearly. He couldn't  _think_  clearly. But he couldn't tell John that, could he? What would John do? Would he leave? Walk out and never come back? Likely. Walking out was John's typical solution to any sort of drama.

But as much as he couldn't tell John, he also couldn't  _not_  tell him. The fight was too much. He couldn't stop the truth from finally freeing itself and jumping out of his mouth.

"There's a fire." He glanced up at John through his lashes and saw that he was looking around at the broken base of the lamp like it might have suddenly burst into flames.

"Where? I don't see one."

Sherlock tapped his temple with his right index finger and clarified, "in here."

John blinked at him uncomprehendingly. "I don't quite—"

"I can't put it out, John," Sherlock ground out through gritted teeth. "I can't make it stop. I keep seeing him. I keep feeling him  _touching_  me."

"Oh God. Sherlock. . . I'm so sorry." John slid closer but his hands stayed in his lap. Of course John wouldn't want to touch him, after that. "I'm so sorry he hurt you."

John's voice was soft, familiar, comforting. Sherlock's already weakened defenses were suddenly flooded by the overwhelming need to tell him everything. He couldn't fight this by himself anymore.

"He said he loved me. He said I was special, and talented, and clever." The words tumbled out in a rush; he couldn't  _stop_  them. "No one  _ever_  told me I was clever. Mycroft always told me I was stupid. He was touching me all over. And then he hurt me. There was blood in my pants. I couldn't make him stop. I just stared at that stupid bear the whole time he was doing it. When I told him it hurt, he said he was showing me how much he loved me. That's what people do when they love each other." Sherlock broke off and rubbed the heels of his hands against his eyes. "That's not true, is it, John?"

"No, Sherlock, that's not true." John had moved closer; he had shifted to his knees and his shoulder was right in front of Sherlock's face. Sherlock kept his eyes locked on the stripes in John's jumper. John was still talking in that gentle voice, the one that slipped right through Sherlock's tattered emotional shields. "That's not what love is like. It's not meant to hurt."

Of course it wasn't true. He knew it couldn't be. What an  _idiotic_  thing to believe. And he had fallen for it hook, line, and sinker. So why had he believed it? Why had he fallen for it so completely that he was willing to lie to keep the Vampire's secret? He was complicit in his own abuse. "Of course not. I should never have believed that," he spat bitterly.

There was a pause. Even though Sherlock kept his head down, he could feel John's eyes on him, appraising him as no one else was ever able to do. "Sherlock, it's not your fault."

He pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes again, hard enough that he saw sparkles in the darkness. "What if it is? I  _wanted_  to believe him. I wanted to believe that I was special and clever."

"He knew just what to say and do to get you to trust him. It's called grooming. He got you to trust him, and then he took advantage of that trust. You were a child. It wasn't your fault."

"But I shouldn't have fallen for it, John. How could I have been so  _stupid_?"

"You were a  _child_."

"Even Mycroft managed to quit after three lessons. Why couldn't I get away from him?"

"Mycroft? Oh. . ."

"He listened to my little deductions and said I was going to be a genius detective someday. He gave me a  _magnifying glass_! I let him manipulate me. I let him and I never told anyone," he said bitterly. A worrisome lump had grown in his throat and his eyes were burning behind his hands. Don't cry don't cry oh god don't cry in front of John.

"Sherlock, look at me."

Sherlock froze with his hands against his face. He couldn't let John to see the tears that threatened to overflow. John didn't do well with drama. John tended to throw things and stomp away.

Sherlock felt John's fingers close on his wrists and gently pull his hands away from his face. He pressed his lips together hard and squeezed his eyes tightly shut.  _Clammy hands slide over his skin, wet lips graze his neck. He can feel the vampire's hot breath. Shame floods over him, paralyzes him._

John gave a faint sigh. "Please listen," he continued. "It's still not your fault. You were six years old. You could not have consented even if you had wanted to. You know that. It is  _not your fault_."

"I wish I could believe that," Sherlock choked out. "I keep feeling him touching me. I can't make it  _stop_ , John." And then his voice cut out entirely. His shoulders suddenly spasmed with a gut-wrenching sob. He pulled his wrists from John's grasp and put his arms over his head to hide his face. He didn't want John to see him weak. He didn't want John's pity. He wanted John to leave, but at the same time he wanted John to stay. If John stayed, maybe he could get the vampire to leave him alone. Maybe.

"Oh, Sherlock. . ." He felt John move even closer, but he still didn't touch him. The heat from John's body warmed his frozen limbs. It felt good. Comforting. Safe. He didn't  _deserve_  that comfort, but somehow his traitorous body wanted it anyway. Sherlock leaned forward until his forehead rested against John's shoulder, every muscle taut and trembling from the futile effort to keep control.

Almost immediately he felt John's arms go around him, a slight pressure from John's hand on the back of his head. John was firm and solid and  _warm_. He wanted to crawl inside that warmth and stay there forever. Of their own accord, his fingers curled into the front of John's jumper and his forehead pressed in hard against John's collar. "I can't make it stop," he whispered shakily through his tears. "Please, make it stop. . ."

John's fingers slid down over his hair to his neck. His touch was warm and dry, not cool and clammy like the vampire. Sherlock felt that warmth soaking in through his skin, down his arms, unfreezing his hands, quieting the hurricane in his mind. As the storm died down, he slowly regained some small measure of mental and emotional control, just enough to shove the images into their room and bolt the door shut. Not a long-term solution, but it would have to do for now. The fire was still burning, but at least it was contained. After several minutes, the sobs died down and the shaking decreased.

With the turmoil dealt with temporarily, he could finally expend some of his mental energy on the case. Without raising his head from John's shoulder, he choked out, "I need to. . ." He stopped. His voice was still shaky and too small. Swallowing hard, he continued, "I need to text Lestrade and tell him where to find Popovic."

"But we didn't find him."

"Yes, that was him," Sherlock said impatiently.

John pulled back a little. "Then why did you run off?"

"Because of the—" He broke off suddenly. Alarm bells were going off in the back of his mind. Alert! Alert! Definitely not good to tell John about the vampire. Medical professionals tended to overreact to that sort of thing. John wouldn't let him get away with it the way Molly had. "Because of the busker."

"The busker? The one who was playing violin?"

"Yes. I recognized the piece. It was one  _he_  taught me. I just couldn't listen to it anymore."

John was frowning now, Sherlock could tell even though he wasn't looking at his face. "Really? I could barely even hear the music."

"I could hear it. Believe me. I recognized it."

"All right. Want me to text Lestrade for you?"

"No, I can do it." Sherlock straightened up, out of John's arms. He immediately missed the warm and protected feeling, but he shoved his emotions aside. The case was what was important. He needed to keep focused on the work.

He pulled his phone from the pocket of his coat, ignoring the fact that his hands were still trembling slightly.  **Found Popovic. I'll take you there first thing in the morning. Meet me at NSY at 9 am.**

"In the morning?" John asked, eyebrows raised. "Why not now?"

Sherlock waved him off. "Popovic won't be there now. He was heading out for his night's work. He'll be sound asleep at nine in the morning."

"I see," John said slowly, although he clearly didn't. "So shall I meet you here in the morning or at NSY?"

"Mary has to work tomorrow morning, remember? You can't exactly go haring off after a murderer with a baby strapped to your chest, now can you?"

John snorted. "I suppose not. But I could leave her with Mrs Hudson. I'm sure she'd be agreeable."

"No need." Sherlock held up his phone to show John the text back from Lestrade.  _Ok, I'll meet you here. Wish you'd tell me the address but I know you won't so never mind._ "See? Gary and I can handle it."

"You mean Gr—yeah, whatever, I'm sure you and  _Gary_  will be fine."

* * *

Almost as soon as Sherlock finally convinced John it was all right to leave, almost an hour later (he could tell John desperately wanted to go but was being too kind to say it), his phone rang. Probably Mycroft, or possibly his mother, calling to pry for more details, or to ask him repeatedly if he was all right. He would be more all right if they would just  **leave him alone**.

When he glanced at the phone (just to see who was calling, with no intention of answering, of course) he saw that the caller ID showed Tracey Sorrell, CPS. Her own private number, not her assistant this time. Sherlock frowned. Should he answer or let it go to voicemail? He knew Sorrell was planning more humiliation for him, and if he didn't answer, she would simply make the plans and he would have to follow along. Perhaps it was better to answer so he would have a say in what happened.

His finger hit the answer button before he had really decided, but then it was too late. Hanging up now would only give her more ammunition.

"Sherlock Holmes," he said shortly.

"Mr Holmes? Tracey Sorrell. How are you?"

"You know how I am. You only saw me a few hours ago. What do you want?"

"I need corroborating evidence to back up your testimony, Mr Holmes."

"What sort of evidence do you want? My bloody pants?" Sherlock asked indignantly. "I'm afraid I haven't got them anymore. Had to hide them from my mother, you know."

"I have two options to present to you. One is that you submit to a physical examination. . ."

Sherlock stopped breathing. Physical examination meant removing his clothing, allowing a doctor to put hands all over him, invade his privacy, violate him in every possible way. And for what purpose? There was no physical evidence to be found. "This happened nearly thirty-five years ago. What would be the purpose of a physical exam?"

"There may be scarring. . ."

"There isn't."

"That would be for the doctor to determine."

"What is the second option?" he asked brusquely.

"Or I could call your mother in for an interview to see if she backs up your version of events, that Lindt was your violin teacher and you are the boy in the video. She'd have to watch the video, of course. . ."

Sherlock's stomach gave a violent twist while his mind presented him with an image of his mother crumpled in John's chair in silent, broken tears. He simply could not allow that to happen on the witness stand. He would not allow Tracey Sorrell to take out her hatred of him on his mother.

"That will be unnecessary."

"Excellent. I've had my assistant set up an appointment for you on Friday, 13:00 at St Barts. Sergeant Donovan will fetch you at 12:30. Does that work for you? I'll give you a moment to consult your calendar."

With his eyes screwed shut, Sherlock said, "No need. I will be ready. I'll do this under one condition. . ."

"What would that be, Mr Holmes?"

"That no matter the outcome of the exam, you leave my mother alone. Humiliate me all you like, but there's no need to drag my mother through the mud, and you know it."

"Agreed." Sorrell responded quickly. "I'm looking forward to continuing your. . . interview next week. I'll have my assistant contact you to make the arrangements.

"Fine," Sherlock said, forcing his voice to stay even and light, and rang off.

* * *

When John left Baker Street (only after Sherlock practically shoved him out the door proclaiming he was "fine"), his first act on the way to the tube station, after turning the corner so Sherlock wouldn't see him, was to phone Mycroft, who answered on the first ring.

"Ah, found my brother, have you?"

"Yes. He told me something interesting."

"Oh?"

"He said you had lessons with Lindt as well."

There was a pause on the other end of the line. John waited, and finally Mycroft said, "It was only for a short while. I wasn't. . . harmed the way Sherlock was."

"I'm sorry that happened to you," John said carefully.

"Thank you, Doctor, but I assure you I'm fine."

"Have you talked to Sherlock lately?"

"I managed to catch him a few weeks ago, but not since then. He won't answer my phone calls."

"Have you come by? Anything?"

"I am monitoring him, John. It's all I can do. He doesn't want to see me. I've tried waiting in his flat but he never shows up. Somehow he always knows I'm there. He won't call Mother back either. How did he seem?"

"He was acting very odd."

"More oddly than usual?" Mycroft's tone was mild, almost teasing, which irritated John. He clearly wasn't taking this seriously enough.

"Funny, Mycroft. He says he can still feel that monster touching him. He begged me to make it stop."

There was a deep sigh on the other end of the line. "John, what am I to do?" The lightness had disappeared from Mycroft's voice, and John had the feeling he was asking a sincere question.

"Don't let him testify. Get him out of here for a while."

"I tried to prevent it, but he is determined. As for getting him out of here, how would you suggest I do that? Hogtie him and throw him in the back of a van? Only a crowbar could remove him from Baker Street."

"I don't know, Mycroft. I guess I hoped you would have some sort of magical solution to this."

"Alas, my powers are not unlimited, especially when it comes to controlling my little brother. I have to rely on you to help me keep him in line."

"Keep him in line? Hardly. I'm his friend, and I think he needs that more than another mother right now."

"Point taken, but his friend is something I can never be. He's very lucky to have you, John."

"Yeah? Tell that to him. Maybe he'll stop running off and leaving me behind."


	26. Breaking Sally Donovan

The next morning, Thursday, Donovan headed in to NSY ten minutes late, with a muffin in one hand and a stack of file folders in the other. She had managed to track down a former headmaster of Rutherford Primary School, who had given her a partial list of male students from 1985-1989, which is all he had records for. She had spent most of the night compiling a list of boys with initials that matched the videos from those years, and today she was planning to do some searches to see if she could find any of those men on the internet or police databases. It was a shot in the dark that she really didn't expect to hit anything. Boring, tedious work unlikely to lead anywhere. Her favourite.

Distracted by plans for her day, she stopped at the newsstand for a coffee to go with her muffin. While the man was pouring her coffee, she stepped back and let her eyes wander while she mentally prepared herself to track down further victims, which may mean cold calling men out of the blue and turning their lives upside down. All of those boys were adults now, and absolutely none of them had come forward. They probably had jobs, spouses, children of their own. What would they say to having their worst secret exposed?

Donovan happened to glance to her left and spotted a familiar figure leaning against the side of the building about twenty meters away: Sherlock, with his coat pulled in tight and his head down, a rolled up newspaper clutched in his hand. Oh, shit, had Kitty Riley published another article about this case? If Fadil had given her more details, Donovan was going to have his head.

She was filled with an almost overwhelming need to talk to Sherlock, to try to make this right, but she knew it would do no good. There was no way he would ever forgive her, so why even try? Her best bet was to keep working out how to win this case another way, to get him out of having to testify.

Donovan squinted at Sherlock's posture. His shoulders were hunched over and his arm was wrapped tightly around his midsection like a hug. On anyone else she would say they were upset about something. On Sherlock. . . well, she didn't know what to think.

Sherlock's hand came up quickly and swiped at his face, then he glanced around as if checking to see if anyone was watching. When Sherlock looked her direction, Donovan hastily turned away, but not before she noticed that his cheek was bandaged and his eyes were rimmed with red. What was wrong with him? Was he  _crying_? How had he cut his cheek?

Donovan's eyes fell on one of the newspapers, The Independent, on the stand in front of her, and suddenly the rest of the world ceased to exist, because the photo on the front page was of a ginger-haired man, with serious green eyes and a cowlick that caused his fringe to stand up in the front. The headline read in bold letters, SUICIDE OF CONCERT VIOLINIST. That hair, those eyes—she knew them. The boy in the fourth video, J 1981, with the sad eyes.

She stood frozen to the spot, her eyes glued to the photo. Of its own accord, her hand reached out and pulled the newspaper from its slot. The first line of the article read, "Renowned musician Joshua Strauss, age 40, first chair violin for the London Symphony Orchestra for over 10 years, was found dead in his Camden flat yesterday evening of an apparent suicide. . ."

The article continued, but Donovan's attention was diverted by a hand that had appeared in front of her face, holding a small voice recorder. She blinked at it for a second, and then looked to her left to see that the arm was attached to Kitty Riley, who had a smug expression on her round face.

"Sergeant Donovan, what do you have to say about your videotapes being quashed in the paedophile violin teacher case?"

"I—uh—don't have a comment about that," Donovan said distractedly. She snuck a glance at the side of the building, but Sherlock had vanished, which was good. It would be better if Riley didn't know he had been there.

Riley moved the voice recorder to her own mouth and said, "And I hear you have a victim who is prepared to testify in the case. What do you say about the rumours that your mystery witness is none other than Sherlock Holmes?"

Donovan froze for an instant, then slowly turned and looked Riley in the eye. The woman's cockiness faltered a tiny bit at the murderous rage she must have seen in Donovan's face.

"Yes, I do have a comment about that," Donovan said slowly. She plucked the voice recorder from Riley's hand and held it close to her mouth. "You," she began in a soft, dangerous voice, "are a morally bankrupt, heartless publicity whore who will print anything in order to see your byline on the front page."

Riley's mouth opened in a little O. She started to reach for the recorder, but Donovan held onto it and continued. "NSY does not release the names of victims of sexual assault. And if you publish the names of victims, even speculate on them, I will see you prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law. And you may quote me on that."

Donovan shoved the recorder at Riley, who took it wordlessly. Then she took her coffee (which she realized the man had been holding out to her for quite some time) handed him the money for the coffee and the paper, and stomped up the steps into the building.

Just inside the front doors, she almost ran smack into Lestrade, who was on his way out.

"Oh, uh, Boss, can I talk to you for a minute?" she asked, shifting the files from one arm to the other so she could pull out the newspaper, and almost dropping her coffee and muffin in the process.

"Is this about not wanting Sherlock to testify? Because we need him. We can't win this case without him."

"No, it's not about that. . ."

"Then we'll talk about it later, all right?" Lestrade clipped his walkie to his belt and put his hand out to catch the door. "Got a break in my homicide case."

"Oh, yeah?"

"Sherlock finally ran our suspect to ground, so I'm headed out to bring him in. Thought Sherlock was coming with me, but he just texted that he can't make it."

Donovan just blinked at him. "Oh," she said faintly.

"I hope he's planning on coming back later, because I need him to explain the connection to Goldwater."

Donovan had no comment on that. She had no idea who Goldwater even was.

"Right, so. . . I'm off."

When Donovan still said nothing, Lestrade headed out the door, pausing to look back at her with a quizzical expression as it closed behind him.

Donovan stood for several seconds staring at the door. Sherlock had begged off on a murder investigation? He had been right outside only a moment ago. Whatever made him decide to take off must have just happened. He had been holding a newspaper, but she hadn't been able to see which one. Was it the Independent? Had he seen the photo on the cover and made the same realization she had?

On the way down the hall, Donovan's phone buzzed in her pocket, two short buzzes, so a text. She struggled to her desk, set the coffee and muffin down, dropped the files and newspaper, and pulled her phone out. The text was from Sorrell.

_I have an exam set up for SH, 13:00 tomorrow at St Bart's hosp. You can pick him up on your way. Bring the DSLR, because you're taking photos._

Donovan's stomach felt like it was about the reject the few swallows of coffee she had managed to get down this morning. She dropped into her chair and sat staring at the newspaper photo of Joshua Strauss. She didn't have any proof, and as the article stated he had no living family, she probably would  _never_  have any proof, but she  _knew_  he was the boy from video #4. The cowlick, the sad green eyes. It had to be him.

Donovan squeezed her eyes shut to block out the picture, but instead a rapid fire collage of images flashed across the inside of her eyelids: Mycroft's tightly folded hands and bruised foot. A skinny blond boy crying as Lindt unbuttoned his shirt. Johnny Blue-Eyes' devastated face streaked with tears. Sherlock swiping at his bandaged cheek and looking around hoping no one saw.

And then another image appeared in her mind, of a smaller version of herself with her arm protectively wrapped around her brother Alex, hiding in the back closet while their mother drunkenly ranted and railed and destroyed their cluttered flat. She could still remember the sounds of breaking glass, the smell of mothballs and mold, the fear in Alex's eyes, how she tried to be brave for him even though her heart was pounding and her throat was clogged with unshed tears.

With that picture still burning on the inside of her eyelids, Donovan pulled her necklace from inside her collar and rubbed her thumb along the tarnished silver chain and over the worn pendant. This necklace had been passed down from her strict Irish Catholic grandmother, to her mother who wanted desperately to be a good Catholic but was too hungover on Sunday morning to take them to early mass, to Sally who had no use for religion but still derived comfort from the feel of Saint Monica's dress and staff. She closed her eyes and pressed her thumb against the warm metal.  _Saint Monica, pray for us,_  she heard her mother's voice whisper.

She had never told anyone what things were like at home, but she had secretly always wished someone would just make it stop. She hadn't been able to make it stop for herself, but she had to try and make it stop for these boys. The only way to do that was to somehow get Lindt to confess and plead guilty. Then at least Sherlock and Mycroft wouldn't have to stand up in court and tell the world what that monster had done to them.

She knew that Pomeroy had been telling Lindt he could beat the charges if he just kept his mouth shut. The only way she was going to be able to convince Lindt to confess was to do an end run around his slimeball solicitor.

* * *

Sherlock left NSY with no particular idea of where he was going, other than "away". Away from Sally Donovan's judgmental glare, away from Kitty Riley's prying eyes, away from the black car he had seen across the street ( _fuck off, Mycroft!_ ).

He walked quickly, pushing past people on the pavement like he had someplace important to be, trying to ignore the little jolt he felt every time he brushed up against someone. Two blocks on he spotted the ginger-haired boy across the street, the boy he now knew the name of: Joshua Strauss. He froze and stared wide-eyed and unblinking as Joshua slowly crossed the street toward him. The boy's face had a bluish cast, his eyes were nearly black with broken blood vessels, and there was a dark red mark around his neck. When he had nearly reached the pavement on Sherlock's side of the street, he lifted his hand and pointed at Sherlock, mouth open but saying nothing. His tongue and lips were purple and swollen.

Sherlock took a stumbling step backward, gasping for breath but finding none. "Go away!" he whispered on his last mouthful of air. The boy continued to advance, and now behind him Sherlock spotted the vampire, fangs glistening crimson with fresh blood.

"You're next," the vampire hissed, and even though he was at least twenty meters away, the voice cut through the noise of the street to speak directly into Sherlock's ear.

"Go away," he said again, but this time it came out as a whimper.

Around him, people had started to take notice of his strange behavior and moved to avoid him. Through the parting crowd, he caught a glimpse of a sleek, black car, the same one he had seen outside The Yard, which meant it was following him.

Sherlock turned and fled, pounding down the pavement, narrowly avoiding colliding with other pedestrians, blindly running toward his nearest bolthole, Dagmar Court, where he knew the way into an abandoned flat. He kept a stash there, for emergencies, and he was sure this qualified. He just needed to not think, not hurt, not feel the hands, for a little while.

* * *

Somehow Donovan made it through the day, through hours of tedious work tracing names and photos of possible victims on the internet with no luck, through Lestrade's triumphant return having arrested his homicide suspect, through half a dozen texts from Sorrell laying out increasingly horrifying details for tomorrow, and through at least twenty phone calls requesting a comment about the progress of their investigation now the tapes had been quashed. Through it all, the newspaper with the photo of Joshua Strauss stayed on her desk, under her stack of files. Every time she caught a glimpse of it, she felt her resolve strengthen. It was too late for Joshua, but there were at least 31 other boys out there she could spare the pain of having to relive their personal hell.

It was almost dark when Donovan pulled her hair into a ponytail, put on her old gray hoodie and left NSY without saying good night to anyone. Lestrade was still interviewing his suspect without help from Sherlock, who had never shown up; Fadil sat at his desk with his back to her, but she still didn't feel like talking to him. He was lucky she hadn't strangled him with her bare hands.

She shoved the section of newspaper into her front pocket and put up her hood on the way out of the door. It was cold but not wet, which was good as she planned to take the tube to where she was headed. It was at least six blocks to the tube station: not the nearest, but a relatively busy one where she could blend in with the crowd and be anonymous.

She got off a stop before Lockyer Street and walked the rest of the way with her hands stuffed into her pockets. The tricky part was going to be convincing Lindt to let her in, but she thought she had a plan that would work. Lindt struck her as narcissistic and weak-willed, a combination she planned to use in her favor.

When she reached the building, she punched the button to buzz Lindt's flat, keeping her face turned away from the security camera in the corner of the entryway. It was a long moment before he finally answered.

"Go away," came Lindt's querulous voice through the intercom. "I don't want to talk to any reporters."

"Mr Lindt, I'm not a reporter. I'm from the police, here to talk to you about your break-in."

"I already gave a statement."

"We'd like some more details so we know how to charge the man who attacked you," she said quickly, before he could disconnect the call.

"I'm not sure I should talk to you without my attorney present."

"Your attorney isn't representing you in the assault case because you are the victim. I really want to hear your side of the story. This is an important case and we want to make sure to get a conviction."

There was another short pause, then the buzzer sounded to open the door. Donovan pulled her hood lower and entered the building. At the door to Lindt's flat, she knocked firmly but quietly. As soon as he turned the knob, she put her shoulder into the door and shoved it open in his face. He took a startled step back, eyes widening as he recognized her.

"You—you—you're not meant to be here. My solicitor said—"

"Your solicitor is a filthy liar who is only interested in fame and glory for himself. I'm here to tell you the truth, Mr Lindt."

Ah, she had his attention now. He was holding onto the wall and staring at her openmouthed. She could almost see the wheels creaking in his head.

"You're a smart man, Mr Lindt. You'd have to be to avoid exposure for so long. You have to know that we've got you dead to rights."

"But the videos—my solicitor got them ruled inadmissible. He said I'd be acquitted."

Donovan took a step in closer, even though he sickened her, and hissed in his face, "He's  _lying_  to you. He don't want you to confess because it's better for him."

"N-no, you haven't got anything on me. . ."

"You're wrong. We don't need those videos. We've got another one, and we've got witnesses who are ready to tell the horrible things you did to them."

Lindt took a faltering step back. "They wouldn't—I loved my students. They would never—"

Donovan stepped forward again, backing the old man up against the wall. "You didn't love them! You used them for your own sick pleasure. You are a filthy paedophile. You know what they do to paedophiles in prison? What you did to those boys is going to come 'round to you."

"I didn't hurt them!"

"Oh, yeah?" She pulled the creased and smudged section of newspaper out of her pocket and opened it to the photo of Joshua Strauss. "Tell that to this boy." She shoved the newspaper into his trembling hands, and he gawped at it tremulously, face going pale.

"You know what you did. If you go to trial, we're going to get a conviction and throw you to the wolves. Your only hope is to drop the ridiculous assault charges, confess and plead guilty, and I'll recommend you stay out of general prison population."

"It won't—you don't. . ." Lindt trailed off, eyes wet and terrified behind his thick spectacles. His flabby hands were shaking and his jowls quivered beneath his weak chin.

"We do and we will. I'm just here to warn you what's about to happen. You still have time to save yourself."

"Please. . ."

Donovan's lip curled. The man was pathetic, but she felt no pity for him. Shaking her head, she snatched back the newspaper, then turned and strode out, pulling her hood up on the way out the door.

By the time she got outside, the adrenaline rush had worn off, leaving her hands cold and shaky and her stomach gurgling with anxiety. She reached up to rub the Saint Monica medallion on her necklace, but it wasn't there.

Frantically she felt around on her neck, then inside her collar, but came up empty. Her necklace was gone, and she must have dropped it either inside Lindt's flat or just outside, because she remembered feeling it on the tube. Shit! There was no going back for it now.

Donovan pushed her hand through her hair in dismay. If that necklace were found, it could easily be traced back to her. She was as good as caught now. She couldn't quite believe that she had likely just sunk her career, and possibly her freedom as well, for  _Sherlock and Mycroft Holmes_.

No, on second thought, it was for all the boys, including Joshua Strauss, who was no longer able to fight for himself. Maybe it was a fair exchange.

* * *

**A/N** : Thanks for reading! Now off you pop to leave me a comment. Oh, and some folks let me know they were sick of Tracey Sorrell. Don't worry, I'm almost done with her.


	27. Four Little Rules

Donovan spent the rest of that night and all of the next morning walking around on eggshells, terrified that at any moment Sorrell was going to call her in and tell her she had got a call from Pomeroy. She would most likely be fired on the spot, and probably arrested too. And then the case against Lindt would continue, and Sherlock would still have to have an exam, and both the Holmes brothers (and probably their mother too) would have to take the stand to testify against him.

She tried to keep busy, but she kept seeing flashes in her mind's eye: Johnny Blue-Eyes crying as Lindt kissed his neck. Mycroft's bruised foot and trembling hands. Joshua Strauss' sad green eyes. She wanted to tell Sorrell about Joshua, but what could she tell her? That he looked an awful lot like a boy in one of the videotapes which is now inadmissible because I am an utter idiot? Every time she thought about it, her hand went to her throat and she remembered anew that the necklace was gone and next she saw it, it would probably be in an evidence bag to be used against her.

At 12:30, Donovan reluctantly got her coat and headed out to fetch Sherlock for his appointment. Maybe she would get lucky and he would refuse to go with her. She didn't understand why he had agreed to do this. He must have known what Sorrell was up to.

When she got to Baker Street, she sat in the car for a good ten minutes, arguing with herself about whether she should go through with this, or just call Sorrell and beg off. Or maybe call Sorrell and say, "Fuck you, I'm not your lap dog." But that wouldn't go over very well. Of course, if she lost her job over this, she could say it then. That thought gave her a tiny bit of warmth in an otherwise bleak and disheartening picture.

She noticed out of the corner of her eye the curtain of 221B twitch, so Sherlock knew she was there. He had probably figured out why she hadn't come in as well, knowing him.

Before she could decide to go in and fetch him, he came out alone with his coat wrapped tightly around himself and a green scarf knotted around his neck. She had hoped he would have John with him to keep him in check. Or maybe not, considering how her previous encounter with John had gone. But still, it didn't seem right for him to go through this with only her for company. Somehow she didn't think he would find her presence comforting.

Sherlock got into the front passenger seat without a word, buckled his seatbelt, and sat staring silently out the windscreen. Donovan eyed his expressionless face while she turned the engine over. A bandage with spots of dark, dried blood crossed his cheek under his eye. He appeared emotionless, but she had an idea of what lay behind that mask.

Hand on the gear-shift lever, she asked, "Are you sure you want to do this?"

"Why would you care?"

"I just—I don't want—It doesn't seem. . ."

The corner of his lip twitched, although he was still staring out the windscreen. "You're afraid of my brother."

"No! I'm just—well, sort of," she finished lamely.

"You should be. But he doesn't decide what I do. I agreed, so I'll do it."

Donovan chewed the inside of her cheek. He  _looked_  ok. He  _sounded_  ok. But did that mean he was really ok? And what about later, when he had to take off his clothes and let the doctor touch him? "Do you want someone with you?" she asked impulsively. "Like John, or maybe. . . Molly?"

His eyebrows pulled together. "Why would I want someone with me?"

"It's likely to be. . . invasive."

"I know that."

"And you know—" Donovan stopped and cleared her throat. "You know Sorrell asked me to take photos?"

"Of course she did," he said in a sharp voice, sarcastic. "I know she detests me even more than you do."

"So why are you doing this?"

He let out a sharp, exasperated breath through his nose. "What do you want me to say?"

"I guess. . . that you want justice."

"Justice?" he sneered. "Justice would be his body on a slab being carved up by Molly Hooper."

"He'll go to prison."

"Prison is a poor second, and that's only if you get a conviction, which is unlikely given how you've bungled this case."

"Oh, God, Sherlock, I didn't—I'm—"

"Donovan, just shut up and drive, please. I'm not in the mood to  _chat_."

"Ok, fine." Donovan gripped the steering wheel harder and stared out at the road. She didn't trust herself to say anything more anyway. Her gut was churning and the lump in her throat was making it hard for her to breathe.

As soon as she pulled into a parking spot in the hospital garage, Sherlock jumped out and headed inside without waiting for her. Donovan sighed while she gathered up her camera, notepad, and jacket, then trailed along after him with her eyes on his back. Although the lobby was fairly crowded, he was deftly avoiding physical contact with anyone. She couldn't help but remember how he had flinched when someone had bumped into him at the courthouse.

When they got to the second floor clinic where his appointment was, Donovan sat in the waiting area while he checked in. She didn't expect him to sit with her, but he surprised her by dropping into the chair next to her and silently pulling out his phone. From the glimpse she got of the screen, it looked like he was comparing photos of cut marks in pale (obviously dead) flesh to graffiti of gang symbols. Of course he was. What did she expect—that Sherlock Holmes would be watching cat videos?

Donovan pulled out her own phone and tried to look busy, but a million questions were flitting through her brain. She wanted desperately to ask Sherlock about Joshua Strauss. She was sure they must have known each other: although Joshua was a couple of years older, they had gone to the same school at the same time, and, if her hunch was correct, both had been having violin lessons with Lindt in 1982.

Just as Donovan had almost made up her mind to ask him, a petite, dark-haired nurse appeared to escort Sherlock back to the exam room. Sherlock got up to follow without a backward glance, and the nurse said, "Do you want your friend to come with you?"

That earned a raised eyebrow and a silent sneer from Sherlock, so Donovan introduced herself to the nurse. "I'm Sergeant Donovan, Metropolitan Police." She held up her camera lamely. "I'll just. . . wait out here until you're ready."

"Oh, all right. Come with me, Mr Holmes."

They disappeared down a hallway, and Donovan settled awkwardly back into her seat. She tried to read the news on her phone, but it was increasingly difficult to concentrate. Her mind kept presenting her with an image of Johnny Blue-Eyes' devastated face. And now she was going to have to watch him be violated again. No wonder no other victims had come forward, if this was what the police put them through.

* * *

After the nurse left, Sherlock sat for nearly ten minutes, still fully dressed, holding the hospital gown in his hand, staring at the pattern of yellow and blue stripes in the fabric until they blurred together. The opening notes to Mozart's Concerto #5 were echoing loudly in his head, which would not do. He decided he must lay some groundrules, if he were to get through this exam with his dignity intact.

Rule #1: Avoid any eye contact or conversation with Donovan. Pretend like she isn't there. Should be easy enough, as it was what he typically did.

Rule #2: Do not attempt to enter the mind palace. It was on fire and infested with a vampire at the moment, so it was not a safe place. Must remember that.

Rule #3: Speaking of vampires, don't think about vampires. Think of something pleasant. Perhaps working on identifying the post-mortem cuts Popovic left behind in his victims, or connecting Miroslav Popovic to Edward Goldwater. Yes, that should work. And don't think about Joshua Strauss or Mozart's Concerto #5 either. Easier said than done, that. In fact, he was still hearing it, playing endlessly in the background in his mind. He should have brought some earbuds so he could listen to music during the exam, but of course he hadn't. Donovan probably had some in her pocket, but asking to borrow them would mean breaking rule #1, so that was out.

Rule #4: DO NOT CRY IN FRONT OF DONOVAN. This was a rule that absolutely must not be broken. Do not squirm, or put hands over face. Hold perfectly still, try to relax—Oh, god, that was going to be difficult, considering that the doctor would undoubtedly be touching him, which recently had been setting off alarm bells in his head. He could already feel the clammy hands ghosting over his skin.

Maybe he couldn't do this after all. He could just set the gown down on the exam table, put his scarf back on, and walk out the door. And then tomorrow Tracey Sorrell, whose entire goal was to punish and humiliate him, would call up his mother and bring her in for an interview, and he could not let that happen. His only other option was to contact Mycroft and throw himself on his mercy, which was a complete non-starter. No, he was stuck with this, and if he simply followed the rules he had laid out for himself, he could survive it.

Sherlock forced himself up and started removing clothing. First the coat and jacket, which he carefully hung on the hook on the back of the door. Next the shirt and trousers, which he folded and laid on the bench along the wall.

There was a light knock at the door. "Mr Holmes?" came the nurse's voice. "Are you ready?"

Shit. "Just a moment." He moved a little faster to finish getting undressed, then pulled the gown on. It tied in the back, of course, which was a bit difficult to reach. The gown was voluminous, but even after it was securely tied, he still felt exposed, vulnerable. He didn't suppose they would let him do the exam with his coat on, would they?

Another light knock at the door, and this time he called "Come in." The doctor, a tall woman with light brown hair pulled back into a pony tail, entered quietly, with Donovan on her heels. The latter looked quite uncomfortable and didn't attempt to make eye contact, thankfully.

"Hi, Mr Holmes," the doctor said in an annoyingly soothing voice. "I'm Dr. Finn. I'm going to be doing a physical exam to document scars or signs of old injuries."

Sherlock gave her the once over and instantly his mind started making deductions. Thirty-one years old, married, two—no, three—children, all horrible noisy boys. Had a ham and mustard sandwich for lunch. Self-conscious about the mole on her nose. Her hands looked cold, maybe clammy as well.  _Don't look at her hands don't look at her hands don't think about her hands touching you don't think about cold, clammy hands ghosting over your skin vampire teeth biting into your neck_. . .

Sherlock swallowed hard and forced his eyes away from her hands. He was already breaking rule #3, and the exam hadn't even started yet. He forced himself to focus instead on keeping his breathing slow and even, which was difficult because his chest felt tight and his airway constricted. He was sure he smelled smoke in the room, but neither Donovan nor the doctor appeared to have noticed it, so it must have been only in his mind.

When he didn't respond, he saw the doctor exchange a concerned glance with Donovan, who shrugged. He wanted to say to her to go on and tell the doctor what she was really thinking, but that would be breaking rule #1, so he kept silent.

"Can you tell me what happened to your cheek?" the doctor asked.

"It's nothing," he muttered. "Taken care of."

"What about your hand?"

"It's fine." Was that smoke? He definitely smelled smoke now, but Donovan was still fiddling with her camera and the doctor was consulting his chart and neither of them was reacting, so it was still in his mind. Shut it out. Try to think about Popovic. What was that symbol he carved into his victims' arms? Nope, not working. His mental image of Popovic suddenly sprouted vampire teeth.

He was vaguely aware that the doctor was saying something to him, but he couldn't make out what it was. Suddenly he felt a cool hand on his shoulder and he jerked away involuntarily.

"He don't like to be touched," came Donovan's voice. What was she doing? In his mind he shouted at her to shut up. He didn't need to be reminded that he was a freak.

"It's  _fine_ ," he hissed through his teeth, keeping his eyes on the far wall. He could see out of his peripheral vision that Donovan had her phone out and was staring at the screen with her eyebrows raised. His mind immediately started speculating about what she could have found surprising. Perhaps she had just discovered that the earth went 'round the sun, or was it the other way 'round? Or maybe  _'_ round and 'round the garden, like a teddy bear. . _. Oh, god, no, don't think about teddy bears. . ._

"All right, Mr Holmes," said the doctor gently, "I'm going to have you lie down on your side now please."

Sherlock was about to comply when he noticed that behind the doctor's shoulder Donovan had snapped the lens cover on her camera and was putting it back in its case. Then she picked up Sherlock's pile of clothes off the bench and said abruptly, "We're leaving."

"What?" said the doctor. "The Crown Prosecutors' office ordered the exam. . ."

"Well, I'm canceling it." Donovan held out the pile of neatly folded clothes. "Sherlock, get dressed."

Sherlock ignored the pile of clothes, narrowed his eyes at her, and pointedly reached for her phone, which she was still holding in her other hand. When she didn't give it to him, he said quietly, "Let me see."

"What makes you think-?"

"You looked at your phone and said we're leaving. There must be a connection. Let me see."

Donovan tapped the screen, which had gone dark, and held out the phone. Just as he was about to take it, she grabbed his wrist and pulled his arm out straight. She narrowed her eyes at the small pink dot on the inside of his forearm, then glared up at his face. Damn. STUPID STUPID STUPID! Why had he been in such a hurry? He should have taken the time to find a less conspicuous place to shoot up.

He forced his face to stay neutral and said nothing, but he couldn't help it that his eyes flicked to the doctor to check if she was watching. She had her back to him, typing something on the computer, so he was safe there. Now he had to trust Donovan to keep her mouth shut. He didn't hold out much hope on that front. He would probably get home to find his brother tearing his flat apart looking for his stash.

After a few seconds, Donovan dropped his wrist and held out the phone again. He snatched it from her hand and saw a text from Lestrade:  _Found Lindt dead in his flat. Looks like suicide._

Sherlock was so surprised he broke rule #1: he made eye contact with Donovan, whose lip pulled upwards into a tiny half-smile that he couldn't help but match. Trying, and failing, to suppress the grin, he handed the phone back and took his clothes.

"So are you going to leave, or are you planning to stand there and watch me get dressed?"


	28. Redbeard, where are you?

After Donovan dropped Sherlock off at home, where he got out and slammed the door behind him without even a goodbye, she went back to NSY to face the music. She knew it would only be a matter of time before Lestrade or someone else recognized her on the security video from Lindt's flat. Even though she had tried to keep her face turned away from the camera, she was sure they would be looking for the mysterious woman who had called on Lindt. Someone would find her necklace, and eventually they would put it together, and then her career would be over. Oh well, it had been a good run, she supposed.

When she showed up at the door to Lestrade's office, he said, "Hey, Sally, just the person I wanted to see. Here." He held out a handful of videotapes. "Can you please go through these CCTV videos from Lindt's building and see if he had any visitors last night."

"Visitors?" she said weakly.

"Yeah. We found some takeout containers in his flat from Sushi Palace and a bottle of Oxycontin filled yesterday from the Boots around the corner. We need to see if he. . . um. . . had any other visitors."

"Oh. Ok." No mention of the necklace yet, which was good. Maybe it had fallen off on the pavement somewhere. She reached out her hand for the videos, but Lestrade didn't pass them over right away. Instead he looked down at his desk with his eyebrows furrowed. Oh, God, he must suspect. . .

"Boss?"

"Yeah, it's just that—well—I'm worried that maybe Sherlock went there last night. He never showed up to help me with the interrogation. His brother says he lost track of him in the morning and didn't find him again until late at night."

Donovan blinked. She was fairly sure that Sherlock was off somewhere getting high last night, but how could she tell Lestrade that without getting him into more trouble? And what if he _had_ paid a visit to Lindt after she left? "What do you want me to do if I find. . . something on the tape?"

"Just come and tell me. I'll figure something out. Coroner's ordered an inquest. We've got to keep this above board."

"Lindt wasn't in custody when he died."

"No, but you know Cummings; he's cautious. You'd better get started right away. I really hope the evidence will show this is straight-up suicide due to remorse, but whatever we find, we've got to do the right thing."

"Yeah, right. Ok." Donovan took the tapes and trudged down the hall to the media room, while disjointed thoughts buzzed around in her head. She had been at Lindt's flat around 18:00, which meant that she was bound to turn up on the tapes she held in her hand. So what to do? What to do?

She reviewed her options while she set up the first tape in the player. Oh, who was she kidding—she had no options. Within a few minutes, it was all going to come out. She resolved that when her visit showed up on the tape, she would tell Lestrade everything and throw herself on his mercy. Not that it would change the outcome, but she hoped at least he would be on her side.

She started watching at 17:00. The CCTV camera had been on a motion sensor, which meant it only switched on when someone approached the door. At timestamp 17:34, a dark-haired woman in a green coat came to the door and let herself in with a key. Probably a tenant, but Donovan took a photo of her face anyway and kept going.

Three more people arrived between 17:40 and 18:17, all of them men, and all of them apparently tenants. Donovan kept waiting to see herself on the screen but it didn't happen. After 18:17, the next arrival was at 18:52: a woman, OAP* in an enormous purple overcoat, carrying a tiny dog in a clashing plaid jumper. Donovan hit the pause button and squinted at the screen. Where the hell was her own appearance? Surely it had been before 18:52, because she remembered she had come out of the tube station at 17:58. She had had her phone turned off because she was paranoid, so she had glanced at the clock on the way out of the tube station. If she left the station at 17:58, and it was only about a ten minute walk at the most to Lockyer street, then she should have arrived between 18:10 and 18:15. Why wasn't she on the tape? It was bizarre, and slightly creepy. She knew she had been there, so what had happened to the video evidence? Had the camera malfunctioned and simply not clicked on when she arrived? Or had the tape been tampered with? And if so, why and by whom?

Still puzzled, Donovan hit the play button again and kept watching from 18:52 onward. At 19:37 she found a visit from a delivery boy wearing a blue and white waistcoat that said "BOOTS" on the back. So had Lindt had the pills delivered after she had left? That would mean he had most likely made the decision to kill himself based on what she had said, which caused the anxious knot in her stomach to harden and grow.

Donovan made herself a note to look up the phone number for the Boots in the neighborhood to confirm the delivery, and kept watching. At 21:16 another delivery boy arrived carrying a white bag labeled Sushi Palace. He pressed the button for flat 101, so there was Lindt's dinner. Last meal. And probably an expensive one too. She was familiar with that restaurant, having been there once with a wealthy boyfriend. It was a high-end sushi place, too rich for her blood. Boyfriend too—she had dumped him after he took her for a ride in his Bugati Veyron expecting it would impress her so much she would fall into his bed.

While Donovan was writing herself a note to call Sushi Palace, her mobile buzzed in her pocket, and she pulled it out and answered it without checking the caller ID. "Sally Donovan."

“Ah—Sergeant Donovan,” came Tracey Sorrell’s voice. Shit. What now?

“Yeah,” she responded, almost a grunt. _Let's get this over with so I can go back to hanging myself with the noose I created,_ she thought grimly.

“Ah—well. . .” Sorrell stammered. “I’m calling to. . .”

What? Since when did Tracey Sorrell stammer? Not since she had had Sherlock on the stand in Moriarty’s trial. Donovan waited, until finally Sorrell continued.

“I’m calling to . . . apologize.” That last word came out in a rush. 

Donovan pulled back the phone and stared at it to confirm the caller ID. Yes, definitely Sorrell. She put the phone back to her ear and said tentatively, “For what?”

“For. . . for overstepping my bounds and—“

Sorrell trailed off again, and again Donovan waited, incredulous. There was a rustling of papers, then Sorrell finally continued, in a quavering voice. “And for. . . pursuing this case with—with. . . malicious intent.”

Malicious intent?! Sorrell was actually admitting that? Had Donovan slipped into some alternate dimension? Or perhaps the stress had finally got to her and she was off her head delirious?

“Sergeant Donovan?” Sorrell’s voice inquired.

“Oh—I see, yes. Erm. . .”

“I was hoping—that is, could you see your way clear to—to forgive me?”

“Forgive you?” Donovan repeated, stunned.

“Yes, if you please. If you could just say that you forgive me—“

“You want me to _say_  it?”

“Yes, please. I should very much like to. . .” After a pause she continued in a lower voice “. . .to keep my job.”

Donovan narrowed her eyes suspiciously. Sorrell would never say such a thing of her own accord. Someone must have put her up to it, and she had her suspicions as to who that could be. “So in order for you to keep your job—“ (Sorrell made a flustered noise, but Donovan plowed on) “I have to say I forgive you.”

“Yes, just so.” The relief in her voice was palpable. And pathetic.

A tiny smile tugged up the corner of Donovan’s lip. “I’ll have to think about it.”

“You—you will? Oh. . .”

“Yeah, I’ll—take it under advisement.”

“I see. So can you. . . call me back and say it later?” Sorrell’s voice had a hopeful lilt to it.

“Call you back?”

“Yes, please, on this line.”

Donovan suppressed a snicker. “On this line, you say? Well, I will think about it and I’ll keep you advised.” 

“Right, thank you, Sergeant. Thank you so much,”

“Right, bye now.” Donovan rang off without waiting for Sorrell’s reply. She had no intention of calling her back that day, maybe not the next either. Let Sorrell swing; it served her right. With an irrepressible grin on her face she returned the phone to her pocket, but the grin disappeared when she remembered the task she was in the middle of. Somehow her visit to Lindt hadn’t showed up on the video, but she remembered suddenly what Sherlock had said on the way to the exam about his definition of justice: Lindt dead on a slab, and now that was exactly what had happened. She couldn't be sure that he hadn't been there until she finished reviewing the security tape. Of course, just because Sherlock didn't show up, didn't mean he hadn't been there. Maybe the camera hadn't recorded his visit either, just like it apparently hadn't recorded hers.

* * *

 

Molly was running behind again (When was she not?). She still had the autopsy report to finish up for Owen Sprott, along with two accident victims, an overdose, a apparent-heart-attack-but-suspected-food-poisoning, and a body which had been brought in Friday evening after she had left, a 79-year-old male who came with a note that said "RUSH—Inquest requested."

She finished the report on Sprott before she started on the new one, because she knew DI Lestrade had a suspect in custody and was waiting on it. Once it was finally signed and sent off, she got started on the new body. The others could wait their turn.

She did an external exam first. Rainer Lindt, age 79, obese, bad teeth with at least a dozen fillings and cavities, apparent untreated abscess of an upper molar. No external injuries visible, no petechia, nothing under the fingernails. Traces of whitish powder in the fingerprint ridges of his right forefinger and thumb.

She made note of her findings, and then made the Y-incision for the internal exam. Half an hour later, she had found evidence of moderate congestive heart failure, chronic pyelonephritis, pulmonary fibrosis, advanced atherosclerosis, and a gallbladder full of stones. If someone had wanted this chap dead, there would be no need to kill him—they would have been better off just waiting a few years until his internal organs finished him off.

When she opened up the stomach, she discovered what she was sure was the immediate cause of death: at least twenty small, white, partially-digested pills, mixed in with the slurry of what looked like partially digested seafood. She would have to run tests on the powder on his fingertips, but she would bet it came from picking up the pills to put them in his mouth.

Just as she finished weighing and cataloging the stomach contents (not her favorite job by far), the door swung open. Ah, yes, Tuesday again, so that'd be Sherlock. She was about to greet him when she realized that she had forgotten to call John about what he had told her last week about the vampire. Crap. When she got too busy at work, she lost focus and couldn't keep things like that in her mind.

"Hey, Sherlock," she said without looking up, and was surprised when a woman's voice answered.

"Hullo, Dr Hooper."

Molly looked up. Sergeant Donovan? Molly didn't know Donovan was on any of the cases she had landed lately. Donovan never came to the morgue unless she had to.

"Oh. Hello, Sergeant, how can I help you?"

"I need to see a—oh."

"See what?"

"That's the one." Donovan gestured toward Lindt's body, but didn't come any closer.

"Rainer Lindt? Was this your case?"

"Sort of. Not any more, I guess."

Molly didn't quite understand what Donovan was getting at with that, but she let it go. "Hmm. . .ok." She carried on weighing the enlarged spleen and returned it to the stomach cavity.

"Do you think it was suicide?"

"Well, I haven't finished the autopsy yet, but I've found no signs of struggle, no wounds. He had a lot of partially digested pills in his stomach, and no evidence he didn't take them voluntarily. I'll have to wait for the tox report, but I'd say suicide is the most likely scenario at this point."

"There's going to be an inquest."

"I saw that. Do you know why?"

Donovan took a step closer, staring at Lindt's slack face. "Do you know who this is?"

"Um. . ." Molly consulted the file, which was lying on the cart next to the exam table. "Rainer Lindt, age 79."

"Paedophile violin teacher."

Molly paused in her task of checking the integrity of the liver (diseased but no signs of trauma) and raised her eyebrows at Donovan. "Oh! From the news?"

"Yeah."

"I see. So I guess your case is over then?"

"Yeah, not exactly the outcome I expected, but I can't say I'm too upset about it."

Molly squinted at Donovan's face, which didn't look "not too upset." Her lips were pressed together and her eyes were scrunched up. It almost looked like she was about to cry.

"Everything all right, Sergeant?"

Donovan swallowed hard and rubbed her face. "I'm all right. Can't say the same for—" She broke off abruptly, rubbed her face again, and continued. "Well, probably or the best, I guess. Don't have to go through a trial."

"I suppose not."

Donovan started backing away. "Anyway, thanks, Dr Hooper." (thanks for what, Molly wondered) "I'll—I'll see you later. She headed toward the exit, only to almost run smack dab into Sherlock who had just come through the double doors on his way in. For an awkward moment, they both sort of danced around each other. Molly held her breath, bracing for a fight. She knew the two of them didn't get on. She had heard Donovan call Sherlock names, most notably Freak, but there were others that made Molly wish she were the sort of person who knew how to throw a punch. But she had also heard Sherlock lay into Donovan with an extra dose of his usual scorn, so he probably deserved what he got.

However, this time, instead of starting a fight, Sherlock just stepped back and waited for Donovan to pass. Donovan hesitated, chewing her lip, eyes on his face, but he didn't look at her, and after a couple of seconds she brushed past him and out the door.

"Hi, Sherlock," Molly greeted him while she returned the kidneys to their place inside the abdomen. His reply was to hold up a small jar and set it on the counter. Right. Sample day. "Ok, thanks."

Molly removed the spleen and placed it on the scale, expecting that at any moment Sherlock would either walk out or start pestering her for more body parts, but he did neither. When she turned back to look at him, he was standing in the exact same spot, staring blankly at the body on the slab. Molly looked back and forth between Sherlock and the body, frowning. What was wrong with him? It wasn't like this was the first time he had seen a dead body.

"Sherlock? Do you need something?"

"Um—yes—I did some research on the—on the—" He broke off, still staring at the body without moving.

"Sherlock? Research on what?"

He blinked and looked at her like he had just realized she was there. "I did some research on the cuts on Sprott's arm. I think they were made by a Shirogorov 111. Very thin, sharp blade."

"Oh, all right. Did you figure out what the design is?"

"It's from an old form of the Cyrillic alphabet. It took me a while to figure it out because I couldn't. . ." He trailed off, eyes cut to the side to look at the body again.

"Couldn't what?" Molly prompted.

"I had to look it up. I can send you the link."

"Ok, thanks. Hey, do you have a few minutes? I'm almost ready for a break. I'll do your sample, then maybe we can have lunch together."

"No time. I have to go."

"Go where?"

"You know, busy busy." He gave her a fake grin that disappeared immediately, shot one last glance at the body on the slab, and escaped out the door without saying goodbye. Well, that was strange, but she supposed it was no stranger than his typical behaviour.

She decided to take a break from the post-mortem on the old man, since it was nearly lunchtime anyway and she was at a good stopping point. She still needed to take samples of blood, bile, vitreous humor, and other organs, but those could wait until after lunch. That way she could do a quick analysis on Sherlock's sample while it was still fresh.

Twenty minutes later, she made a face and pulled out her mobile. She knew Sherlock didn't have gout, so his sample shouldn't contain traces of Colchicine (did he think she was a complete idiot?). Maybe it was nothing, but the fact that Sherlock was trying to pass off someone else's sample as his own again made her concerned. He must be hiding something, and if so, John needed to know. And while she was at it, she could tell him about the vampire sightings as well.

John answered on the fourth ring, just as she was mentally preparing a voicemail.

"Hello, Molly." His voice sounded harried, and she could hear the baby wailing in the background.

"Oh, hi, John, um. . ."

"Everything all right?" The baby gave another shriek, and John hushed her. "Quiet, Alice, I'm on the phone!"

"I'm sorry, this sounds like a bad time. I can call back later."

"No, it's fine. What's up, Molly?"

"I'm a bit concerned about Sherlock. . . "

"Oh? You too? What's he done now?"

"Well, he came in today and left a sample, but I don't think it's his. You didn't prescribe any Colchicine, did you?"

John gave an exasperated scoff. "No, not that I know of. What a git."

"So I don't know if he's. . . well, he didn't stick around for me to collect a real sample, so who knows?"

"All right, Molly, I'll check in with him. Thanks."

"Also. . ."

"Was there something else?"

"Has he been talking to you about what's going on with him lately?"

"Yeah, a bit. Did he tell you about it?" John sounded surprised, which made Molly curious. What would there be to tell?

"Not really what was going on, but he said. . . I mean, did he tell you about. . ."

"About what?" John shouted over the baby's sudden deafening scream.

"I—I'm sorry; you're busy."

"Yeah, a bit—Alice, put that down!"

"It's fine, I can just tell you later."

"Molly, I think I already know everything. No, Alice, don't pull on that!" There was a loud clatter, then the baby gave another earsplitting wail. "Oh, now you've done it."

"Everything all right?"

"Alice pulled some pans down on herself. Now she can pull herself up she's become a right menace."

"I'll let you go. We can talk later."

He rang off with a hurried, "Ok, great, bye." Molly pocketed her phone with relief. Of course John knew everything. There was no need to worry.

* * *

 

Sherlock had planned to stop by the Yard on his way home to check in with Lestrade, but his head was buzzing too much. He had hoped that seeing Lindt's body on the slab would give him some closure, but all it did was increase his anxiety. He needed to calm himself down, but he didn't dare go find another stash. He might have gotten away with the swap this time, but Molly would figure it out eventually, and then he would have either John or Mycroft tossing his flat and making noises about rehab. In fact, he was a bit surprised Mycroft hadn't already been at his flat with his sniffer dogs, considering the suspicious look in Donovan's eyes when she examined the inside of his elbow.

"221 Baker Street," he told the cabbie. He needed to get some things tidied up before the hammer fell. He needed to be rid of hard evidence before John and/or Mycroft showed up. If he could stay clean, then by tomorrow the injection site should be completely healed, and his system should definitely be clear so it would be safe to give Molly a real sample. Tomorrow he would be in the clear.

His phone buzzed in his pocket as the cab pulled away from the kerb, so he pulled it out, expecting John, but the caller ID was Tracey Sorrell. He sneered at the phone in disgust. Under no circumstances would he be answering that call. Now that Lindt was dead, she had nothing to hold over his head, and therefore he had no more use for her. He silenced the phone, jammed it back into his pocket, and hunched further into his coat, collar up around his ears, chin on his chest. How utterly boring life was without his mind palace.

When the cab stopped in front of his flat, he could see before he got out that the knocker was still crooked, so Mycroft still hadn't been there. Four days already since Donovan had inspected the inside of his arm and still no follow-up from Mycroft. The British Government was slipping.

As soon as he entered the front door of the building, he realized he had been wrong because he could smell Mycroft's cologne. Shit. Time to get a new tell. He looked up to see Mycroft standing at the top of the stairs leaning on his umbrella, watching him with a pensive expression on his face, so it was too late to run.

"Took you long enough. I expected you on Friday," Sherlock grumbled, pushing past Mycroft into his flat. No stench of adolescent body spray, so no Anderson this time. Was Mycroft alone? Or was John hiding inside somewhere?

"John called me a half hour ago. Isn't your drugs test on Tuesdays?"

Ah, so Molly, not Donovan. Surprising, but he supposed Donovan had been too busy to call just yet, what with all the recruiting of convicts to break into houses for her and conspiring with the CPS to humiliate him. "You didn't mess up my sock index, did you?"

"Oh, shut up, Sherlock. You haven't got a sock index."

"Yes, I do. You just don't understand it."

Mycroft heaved an affected sigh. "I didn't bother searching here because I knew I wouldn't find anything."

herlock prowled the room, willing himself not to look toward his bedroom where he knew there was a stash hidden under the loose floorboard. Mycroft would find it if only he bothered to walk on the board and hear the squeak. "Then why are you here?" he groused. "Are you planning to drag me off to rehab? Or worse?"

"I would if I thought it would do any good."

"Then go away."

"I wanted to talk to you."

"Well, I don't want to talk to you."

"I thought you'd be relieved."

"Why would I be relieved?"

"Lindt is dead. You won't have to testify."

"Sorrell and Donovan both hate me. I'm sure they'll find some other way to humiliate me. Haven't you got a job to do? Why don't you shove off?"

"Sherlock. . ."

"GET OUT!" He gave Mycroft a push toward the door.

Mycroft kept his footing, unfortunately, and turned back when he was halfway out the door. "Mummy and Dad are quite concerned about you. They want you to come stay with them for a while."

"Absolutely not."

"Sherlock, if you aren't able to care for yourself, then we will have to do it for you. Mother and I agree on that, at least."

"I can take care of myself!"

"Oh? You've been a near-hermit for the past few months. And now a drugs relapse. . ."

"I don't need mothering!"

"Then prove it! Pull yourself together! If I don't hear from John that you are at least putting in an effort to rejoin society, I will be back here to pack you a suitcase."

Mycroft picked an imaginary speck of dirt off his tie, smoothed his jacket, and left with his nose in the air. At least he was gone, although Sherlock had no illusions that this might bring an end to his attempts to control everything. Why couldn't Mycroft just leave him be?

Scowling, Sherlock pulled his phone from his pocket, and discovered a text from Molly. _I'm sorry, I had to tell them. Please say you understand._

He had also apparently missed three messages and five texts from John, the last of which was sent thirty minutes prior and said simply, _I'm calling Mycroft. Sorry._

Sherlock tossed the phone on the sofa so hard it bounced off onto the floor. If John were truly sorry about calling Mycroft, why would he do it in the first place? Why not just stay out of it?! Why did everyone think they needed to be his mother? He didn't need a mother. He didn't need friends. He didn't need anyone! He could solve his own problems!

_Oh yeah?_ his mind taunted him. _You won't even enter your own mind palace because you're afraid of vampires. Useless! **Damaged**!_

All right, that was quite enough. He would enter his mind palace. He would take control, if only to stay out of Mycroft's clutches. The vampire was dead, so it couldn't hurt him anymore.

His mind helpfully reminded him that just because people were dead in the real world didn't mean they were gone from his mind palace, Moriarty being a case in point. Better hope he didn't escape from his padded room in the dungeon. So would he find the vampire shut back up in his room again? If so, he could put a lock on the door and never go there again. But that would mean entering the room at least one more time to check.

If that was what he had to do, then he would do it. No more of this pussyfooting around. He had to check if the mind palace was still standing, and if it was, he had to get to work making repairs. He had his Work to do, and he needed the resources of his mind palace. He couldn't spend the rest of his life looking up everything on the internet like the rest of the goldfish.

Without removing his coat or shoes, Sherlock flopped down onto the sofa and tucked his fingertips under his chin. He closed his eyes, slowed his breathing (which took several tries but was ultimately successful, so he called it a win), and pulled up a mental image of his mind palace. The door was still off its hinges, but there was no smoke pouring out of the open doorway, so that was an improvement. He could spot extensive smoke damage, but the structure was still standing. Ok, so far so good. First order of business: fix that damn door.

It took him five tries to get the door standing upright again. There was still a hole in it, and the hinges still weren't right, but he couldn't picture how they were meant to go, so it would have to do. At least it was upright, although a strong wind might undo that progress.

The lights were still out as well, but this time on his third attempt he was rewarded with a strong torch that provided more light than the dim candle he had ended up with previously. Yes, things were definitely looking up.

With a bit more spring in his step, he strode down the hallway, past the camping rooms and around the corner. When he spotted the blank gray door, now intact and tightly shut, he came to an abrupt halt. While he stared at it, the door appeared to grow in size again until he was eye-level with the doorknob. Despite his suddenly pounding heart and labored breathing, he took a step toward it, then another. He was almost to the door when the music started: Three Blind Mice, played clumsily on a scaled-down violin.

Sherlock stopped dead, swallowing hard. His mind obligingly supplied him with an image of the ginger-haired boy, Joshua Strauss, with his blue-tinged face and bloodshot eyes. Oh no. Nope. Not ready to see that again. Horrified, he pushed the image away, backed away from the door, then fled down the smoke-damaged corridor in search of Redbeard.

Only this time, Redbeard wasn't in his room. Sherlock searched up and down the hallways, calling "Redbeard! Come on, boy!" with increasing anxiety, but the dog never appeared.

* * *

 

* **An OAP is an Old Age Pensioner. In America we would say Senior Citizen**.

* * *

 

**A/N:** Thanks for reading. Comments and kudos make my little heart go pitter-pat.


	29. Perjury

As Donovan made her way into the courtroom for Lindt's inquest, she caught a glimpse of Kitty Riley's red hair through the crowd. Riley made eye contact, briefly, then quickly turned away and headed to the other side of the room to find a seat.

Molly Hooper was the first witness to be questioned by Cummings, so Donovan sat in the front row of the galley with Lestrade, waiting her turn with equal parts anxiety and impatience. She had submitted a statement to the coroner's office, in which she outlined the case against Lindt, and had never mentioned her own visit to his flat on the night he died. She already knew what she was going to do if Cummings asked her about it on the stand: she was planning to lie through her teeth. And why not? There apparently was no evidence that she had ever been there. And if some evidence—her necklace, for example—were to suddenly appear - well, she was already in for a penny, may as well be in for a pound as well. What more could they do to her?

Lestrade kept shooting her curious glances, so Donovan sat on her hands to keep from chewing her fingernails while Molly Hooper was questioned. Most of her information was already in the report, but since Lindt had been under police investigation, Coroner Alan Cummings was apparently leaving no stone unturned. Molly appeared confident, unfazed, which of course she would be. This wasn't her first inquest, and she was apparently secure in her findings, so it wouldn't bother her to be called in for questioning, even in open court. Donovan had testified at inquests before as well, but never when she had something to hide.

"Ms Hooper, can you confirm for me the cause of death?" Alan asked, with the pathologist's report in his hand. Molly opened her mouth to respond, then suddenly frowned at the upper level of the galley, blinked and cleared her throat.

"Uh, yes, the autopsy revealed proximal cause of death was heart failure. Postmortem toxicology testing indicated a lethal dose of Oxycontin in the system. Portions of 27 partially digested white pills were found in the stomach contents."

"Any signs of injuries that could have contributed to the cause of death?"

"No, none."

"Any injuries on the body which could be considered signs of struggle?"

"No, none."

"Nothing to indicate he had been forced to take these pills by another party?"

"No, there were no signs of any current injuries on the body whatsoever, although two of the ribs had been recently fractured and were partially healed. The evidence indicates those recent injuries did not contribute to his death. There was no physical damage to the lungs or heart."

"Stomach contents?"

"Sushi, rice, and sake, all fairly well digested, in addition to the partially digested pills."

Cummings consulted the autopsy report again, then dismissed Molly with his thanks, and called Donovan to the stand. Her mouth was dry and her insides were twisted into knots from anxiety.  _Please don't ask me if I was there please don't ask me if I was there_ , she silently begged. Just because she was determined to lie didn't meant that she  _wanted_  to. In fact, she'd just as soon not, if it could be helped.

As she took her seat in the witness box, she glanced up to where Molly had been looking and spotted Sherlock and John, just as they had been during the interlocutory hearing. Recalling Molly's frown, she wondered now if the pathologist knew Sherlock's connection to this case. Surely she must.

Cummings started out his questioning by asking her a few clarifying questions about the charges against Lindt and the videotapes that had been thrown out, then several questions about what she had seen on the CCTV footage from Lindt's building. Donovan made sure to keep her responses to what was on the tape: the delivery boys from Sushi Palace and Boots, and her follow-up calls to those businesses confirming Lindt's orders.

Just as Donovan was starting to relax, Cummings tossed this question at her. "Sergeant Donovan, in the course of your investigation, did you discover any person or persons who might have had a grudge against Rainer Lindt, who may have wished him dead?"

"Well. . ." Donovan said, thinking quickly. "We were investigating allegations of paedophilia running back for decades and involving dozens of victims. Finding names was proving difficult - but of course the victims themselves would know, given the newspaper reports. I expect a 'grudge' would be a rather normal reaction from someone who had been abused in this way."

"Do you know of anyone specifically who might have had the means and motive to kill him in this way - forcing the pills on him?"

Donovan kept her eyes focused on the coroner and carefully avoided looking up into the second level of the galley. "No, I didn't," she lied with a straight face.

"Thank you, Sergeant. You may step down."

After brief interviews of both the Boots and Sushi Palace delivery boys, Cummings read out a statement by Andrew Gilbert detailing how he had found the videotapes in Lindt's flat, then started summing up the evidence presented. Donovan listened on the edge of her seat, trying to predict his verdict from the tone of his summary, but it was impossible.

Finally, after he had droned on for over thirty minutes and she felt like she was about to scream, he concluded by saying, "Thank you all for your input. The finding in the matter of the death of Rainer Lindt in his flat on 18 November of this year is death by suicide."

Donovan nearly fell out of her seat with relief. Her mouth curved up into a grin that she couldn't control. When she caught Lestrade's eye, she found the same expression mirrored on his face as well.

* * *

Donovan took the back way out of the courtroom to avoid running into Kitty Riley, ending up in a rarely-used corridor. As she rounded the corner, she was surprised to see Mycroft Holmes seated on a stone bench, hands folded in his lap and an umbrella leaning against his knee. She hadn't seen him in the courthouse, so she had assumed he had stayed away, but apparently she was wrong about that.

She was about to turn around and walk back the other way, because he was almost the last person she wanted to talk to. She felt sick to her stomach remembering all the ways she had screwed up this case, and she was sure that if he saw her, he would make her regret it in other ways. But before she could sneak out of sight, he stood and turned to her. "Ah, Sergeant Donovan, just the person I wanted to see."

Oh, shit, she was in for it now for sure. What would he do to her? Would he go directly for the thumbscrews and boiling oil, or would he toy with her for a while first? While she stood in the corridor gaping, he took a step toward her, and she took a step back. "Sergeant, I wanted to thank you."

Thank her? Now that was a surprise. "For what?"

"I know what you did," he said quietly. Was that a threat? It sort of sounded like one. What would he do to her now?

Donovan blinked hard and took another step back. "Oh God. I didn't tell him to commit suicide, and I certainly didn't—." Her hand went unconsciously to her throat, where she was reminded for the umpteenth time that her necklace was gone forever.

"No need to worry. No one else will find out."

It wasn't a threat then? He was actually planning to keep it a secret to protect her? But how did he—Oh! "I wondered why I never got called out on that," Donovan breathed. "So you're the reason—That's sort of scary, that is. Sherlock told me I should be scared of you."

The corner of his mouth tipped up, just slightly. "You needn't fear me."

"Well, thank you. I could have been in big trouble. You saved my job."

"It was the least I could do. I know you don't get on with Sherlock. Thank you for doing that for him."

"I didn't do it just for him."

"Well, of course for the other boys as well."

"And for you too."

He blinked at her for a moment in what looked like complete surprise. His mouth opened, then closed and opened again like a goldfish. "I—I made an error. I failed to protect Sherlock."

"What, you mean when you were kids? That wasn't your fault. You were powerless and that man took advantage of you. You can't blame yourself for that."

He gave no obvious reaction to that statement, but his hand gripped the umbrella handle so tightly that his knuckles were turning white. "I can't help it."

Donovan's lip twisted in sympathy. "You blame yourself for everything, don't you?"

Mycroft took a breath and exhaled noisily through his nose. "It's my curse, I'm afraid."

"Have you. . . talked to Sherlock about what happened?"

He let out a small, humourless laugh. "That is not possible."

"You could try. He might. . ."

"Those bridges were burnt long ago. We don't have that sort of relationship."

"But you'd like to," Donovan said slowly.

"What I would like is unimportant. Caring is not an advantage. Good day, Sergeant."

He turned on his heel and quickly strode away, toward the back exit, away from the crowds gathered at the front of the building where Donovan was sure Lestrade was taking a bullet for her and being interviewed by the press. Mycroft's back was straight, and his hand on the umbrella was steady, but all she could see were his white knuckles. He may have said that caring was not an advantage, but that didn't mean he didn't care. His relationship with Sherlock was broken, and that was obviously more painful to him than he cared to let on. It was also obvious that he didn't blame Sherlock for that pain, but Donovan couldn't help blaming him on Mycroft's behalf. Sherlock was holding all the cards in their relationship, and he either didn't know it or didn't care. Or more likely he did know it and was intentionally twisting the knife.

Hoping the press attack would be over by now (and also not wanting Mycroft Holmes to think she was following him), Donovan turned left down another corridor that led toward a side door of the courthouse. She intended to circle around and meet Lestrade out front to hitch a ride back to the Yard. She hoped she didn't run into Sherlock on the way or she might tempted to give him a piece of her mind, or maybe even a new bruise to match the assortment he seemed to be collecting lately.

* * *

After the coroner read out his verdict, John stood up to leave the courtroom with the crowd, but when he reached the aisle he realized Sherlock wasn't following him, so he fought his way back past the press of people who were trying to get to the stairs. Sherlock was still sitting in the same spot, eyes glued to his phone and a frown on his face.

"Are you coming?"

"There's no point. Lestrade is going to do a press conference so that damnable crowd will be blocking the doorway for ages."

"Well, it's cleared out up here. Let's go downstairs at least."

Sherlock's lip twitched and he looked toward the stairs with an uncertain expression that quickly morphed into a scowl. "I'd rather stay here."

Suddenly John remembered the flash of long ginger hair he had seen in the lobby on the way in, and he got it. Sherlock didn't want to stay here; he just didn't want to admit he was afraid to go downstairs into the open where Kitty Riley might be lurking.

"How about I go check if she's gone, all right?"

Sherlock's lip tugged upward in the corner briefly before the scowl returned. "Do what you must."

Taking that as permission (and all the thanks he was going to get), John headed down the stairs and took a glance around the lobby. No Kitty Riley that he could spot. Through the window in the door he saw Lestrade's silver hair and a glimpse of a crowd gathered around him.

Back upstairs, he said to Sherlock, "The coast is clear. Let's go."

Sherlock stood, pulled his coat tightly around himself, and followed John down the stairs, but when they got to the lobby, he suddenly turned away from the main entrance down an empty side hallway where there was a wooden bench.

"Aren't we leaving?"

"Not yet. Lestrade will be yammering on for a while." Sherlock sat on the bench and pulled out his phone again.

"We could go out the back way."

"No thank you," he said without looking up.

"Why not?"

"I need to talk to Lestrade about our homicide case. He's busy, so I'll have to wait."

"We could wait out front. It's hot in here."

"Then take off that hideous jacket."

"Sherlock, what's wrong?"

"What makes you thing something is wrong?"

John smirked at him. "It's roasting in here and you are hiding in your coat. . ." Sherlock opened his mouth to interrupt, but John plowed on ". . . in a back hallway instead of leaving out the front door. Of course something's wrong."

"I'm not hiding," Sherlock sulked.

"Yes, you are."

Sherlock sighed and rolled his eyes. " All right, fine. Kitty Riley is already on my scent, and I think I know how she got my name. Those blasted reporters will be all over me if they see me. That's why I don't want to go out there. Understand?"

John folded his arms. "Then why did you even want to come here today?"

"I had to make sure Donovan didn't sell me out."

"Well, she didn't. Does that mean anything to you?"

"Not really." Sherlock gave a dismissive shake of his head and went back to his phone.

"Sherlock, you've got to admit—"

"Oy, Holmes!" interrupted a woman's voice from down the hallway, echoing off the marble walls.

John looked up, sure that Kitty Riley had tracked them down, but it was Sergeant Donovan, coming toward them from the corridor that led to the back door. He had been angry with her after the interlocutory hearing, especially when he learned that the tapes had been quashed, but her testimony today had convinced him that perhaps she really did care about protecting victims. He was about to greet her when he took a closer look at the sour expression on her face.

"What do you want now, Donovan?" Sherlock snapped, before John could say anything.

"You've got to talk to your brother."

Sherlock scowled fiercely at her. "Whyever would I do that?"

Donovan stepped in closer and said in a quietly intense voice, "He blames himself for what happened to you."

Now Sherlock's lip curled up into a sneer. "Good. He should. It's his fault."

Donovan wrinkled her nose incredulously. "No it's not! He was a kid! He was much of a victim as you were."

"Mycroft, a victim? Hardly."

"Why do you do this to him?" she said, shaking her head in disgust. "It's sick."

"Do what to him? You think I'm hurting him? Nothing can hurt him, because he does. not. care."

"That's not true!"

Sherlock stood and looked down his nose at her, eyes narrowed. "You lied on the stand."

Now she took a step backward. "No I didn't!"

He stepped in, using his size as an advantage as he towered over her. "Yes, you did," he said quietly, almost in her ear. "You said you hadn't found anyone who wanted Lindt dead."

Donovan let out a shaky breath. "Don't change the subject. You think nothing can hurt your brother, and you're almost right. The only one who can hurt him is YOU, because you are the only one he cares about."

"Donovan, you should probably shut up now."

"Why do I even bother?" muttered Donovan. Shaking her head, she turned and strode away, around the corner toward the back entrance to the courthouse. With an exasperated backwards glance at Sherlock, John chased after her.

"Sergeant Donovan?"

She turned and folded her arms defensively, gaze fixed on a point behind his shoulder.

"He means thank you," John said, a little out of breath from chasing after her. "Thanks for testifying and keeping his name out of it."

"No he doesn't. Don't go around apologizing for him. You're only enabling him. If he really wants to thank me, he should do it himself."

"I know, but you know him. He won't."

"And that's the problem."

Yes, it was, John silently agreed, but he couldn't tell Sally Donovan that. "He and his brother—their relationship is complicated."

"No, it's not. They think it is but it's not. If they would just bend a little bit, put in a little effort to understand each other. . .Mycroft's in pain, John. He'd never admit it, but he is. And Sherlock is either too blind to see it or too callous to care."

"I don't know what to say, Sally. I can't make Sherlock talk to him. Lord knows I've tried."

"I'm done wasting my breath. Those two can lie in the bed they've made." She turned and strode away, her back stiff and her hands tightly clenched.

John pressed his lips together and headed back to Sherlock, hoping he was still where he had left him. It would be just like him to up and take off as soon as John was out of sight. As he neared the corner, he spotted Molly Hooper leaning against the wall in an alcove, with one arm tightly wrapped around herself and her other hand over her face.

"Molly?"

"Oh! John." She sniffed and wiped at her face. Her eyes were red and her makeup was smeared.

"Everything all right?"

"John, why are you here today?"

"Oh, I—uh—I came with Sherlock."

"The papers said he was helping with that case, but that's not true, is it? That was his violin teacher."

John bit his lip. "I can't—"

"No wonder he was seeing vampires. I didn't even know."

"Seeing vampires? More than once?" Shit, was that what was going on with him? John had been so distracted lately with the demands of parenting that he hadn't had the energy to really even be Sherlock's friend; much less his doctor/psychiatrist/babysitter. And Sherlock had never told him, which rankled. What was the point of having a best friend if you shut them out of the worst of your problems?

"Yes, I asked him about it and he said he had a couple of times. But I didn't know about all of this."

"I'm sorry, Molly. I'll tell him he should talk to you."

"He's lucky he's got you, John."

"You think so?"

"You should have seen him before he met you. You definitely changed his life for the better."

Even though he didn't quite believe that, John gave her a wry half-smile. "Thanks. That means a lot."

She nodded at him and headed off down the corridor toward the side door, and John went to find Sherlock. He was still sitting on the bench, head down, eyes on his phone. He didn't look up when John approached, so John folded his arms and glared at the top of his head.

"You think she's right," Sherlock said finally, without looking up from his phone.

"I think there's nothing to be gained by blaming Mycroft. He didn't do anything to you. He was a victim himself."

Sherlock looked up, his lip curled up into a snarl. "You know nothing, John. It's best to keep your mouth shut."

"I'm planning to do just that," John said in a quiet fury.

Sherlock pocketed his phone and stood. "I'm going home."

"What about Lestrade?"

"I can talk to him later. The bloodsuckers have still got their hooks in him out there. It'll be ages."

"Then I'll take you home."

"I don't want company."

"I'm coming with you, like it or not."

"Stop babying me!" Sherlock hissed. "I don't need another mother."

"I'm your friend," John fumed, "and yes, you do need a friend."

Sherlock huffed through his nose. "I just. . . need some space. I won't do anything rash."

"No drugs?"

"No drugs, no jumping off roofs. . ."

"Don't joke about that please."

"Yes, all right; I didn't mean to bring that up. Just let me have some space. Please."

John sighed. "All right, I'll take you home but I won't stay. But you have to promise you'll call me in the morning."

"Yes, I promise."

As they headed toward the back door, John considered that the tricky part of being a friend, particularly Sherlock's friend, was treading that fine line between 'being there for him' and 'trampling on his autonomy.' He had trouble knowing exactly where that line was sometimes.

 


	30. Saint Monica, pray for us

Sherlock was unable to convince John to drive him straight home, even though he did everything but all-out beg. He needed to be someplace private, preferably RIGHT NOW, so he could try again to get his mind palace in order. He had hoped that attending the inquest would help him get closure, but that apparently had not worked either. The only thing he had been able to think about was  _Where is Redbeard_? And that just wasn't helpful in the slightest. And being confronted by Donovan wasn't helping either. Hadn't she done enough damage? Why was she trying to interfere in things she knew nothing about? Infuriating.

"Hey, Sherlock! You there?" John's voice intruded on his mental turmoil. That tone meant John had probably been trying for quite some time to get his attention.

"Yes. What?" He snapped back, hoping that the edge in his voice would make John back off, but alas.

"Are you hungry?" John's voice had an edge to it as well, moreso than that simple question typically contained. Sherlock took note and decided to tread lightly.

"I promise I'll eat later," he lied. Placating John was an excellent strategy for this situation, he decided. After John left he could do what he liked, but he had to get rid of him first.

"Have you got any food in your flat?"

"Yes. Maybe."

"Which is it?"

"I don't remember."

"Let's stop for take-away. Kabobs or Italian?"

"I thought you weren't staying." Sherlock thought longingly of his stash tucked away under the floorboard in his bedroom. If things got too hairy in his mind palace, at least he had that as an escape.

"I'm not. I'll take some home to Mary. She's been dealing with Alice all day and she's probably starved."

"Fine. I don't care. Whatever you think Mary and Alice will eat."

"Fine," John barked. "Italian it is." Hmm, apparently the placating was not going as well as Sherlock had hoped.

"Fine."

So Sherlock ended up riding the rest of the way home with a bag on his lap that held a container of lasagna that he had picked at random from the menu just to get John off his back, and an order of breadsticks that John had insisted he add. How tiresome. Although the warmth that was soaking through his trousers from the bag did feel nice. And the smell of the bread was making his mouth water, which annoyed him even though he knew it was unreasonable.

About six blocks from Baker Street, John suddenly steered the car over into the parking strip and pulled up the handbrake. Sherlock glared at him, but John kept staring straight ahead, mouth pressed in a straight line. That was John's "angry" face, but Sherlock didn't have the patience to deal with it right now.

"Why are we stopped? I thought you were taking me home."

"I will, but I want to talk to you first."

"You mean talk AT me," Sherlock huffed.

"Call it whatever you like. You can just shut up and listen, because I am going to say this, no matter how long it takes."

Sherlock rolled his eyes, but he kept his mouth shut and stared moodily out the windscreen. There was no stopping John once he got on a roll, so he might as well just stay quiet and get it over with.

"First, you need to call Molly Hooper and tell her what is going on. You know she was in tears today? She figured it out on her own, but she needs to hear it from you."

Sherlock was about to interrupt to say that he didn't owe Molly an explanation, but a warning glance from John made him break off with a huff.

"Yes, you do need to tell her, because she cares about you and she deserves to know what's going on. She's been a good friend to you and you owe her that much. She also said you've been seeing vampires, which you did not tell me about, I'm sure because you knew how I would react. Next time you see one, you will tell me. Agreed?"

"Yes, fine." Sherlock bit out. I'll do that never, he thought. If Molly already had it figured out, what was the point of telling her? What did John expect, that he would take her out to dinner and give her all the gruesome details over dessert? That would be excruciating, not to mention unnecessary. He didn't think he could handle the look of  _pity_  on her face.

"Now as to Sally Donovan. . ."

Oh, God, not this again. Sherlock knew he didn't owe Donovan anything. There was no friendship to protect with her. Donovan could go fuck herself as far as he was concerned.

"If she lied on the stand today—I'm not saying she did but I know you think that—it was to protect YOU. She risked a lot for you by doing that, and you owe her an apology and a thank you." John said in his serious dad-lecture voice. "No, keep your mouth shut," he added in response to Sherlock's intake of breath. Sherlock sank back in his seat and scowled fiercely at the glovebox. "You don't have to like her, but you do have to treat her with respect. Now let's talk about Mycroft, shall we? Or rather, I'll talk about Mycroft and you'll listen. I know you two have a history that I don't quite understand, but I also know that Mycroft does indeed care about you, despite his protestations to the contrary. He saved your life by helping you play dead, at great risk to himself. Just like you saved my life by stepping off that roof, even though I didn't understand it at the time. You may not like all the ways Mycroft tries to control you, but you do have to acknowledge that he does it out of love."

Sherlock was about to protest that John was being ridiculous, that Mycroft couldn't  _love_  him, because Mycroft didn't love or even care about  _anyone_ , but he bit his tongue when he saw the set of John's jaw. This was don't-mess-with-me-or-I-will-fuck-you-up John, and the only safe course of action was to sit quietly and take it.

"I know you can't see it, but you are hurting Mycroft by constantly pushing him away." John gave a small nod, as if agreeing with himself. "There, I can't make you listen, but I've said my piece and I'll stop now—No, you're not allowed to speak—I'll take you home now, and if you promise you will stay sober and phone me in the morning, I'll leave you alone. Promise?"

"Yes, I promise." What John didn't know wouldn't hurt him. Sherlock would be more careful this time about his injection site so no one would find the track mark.

"Fine, good." John took a deep breath and pulled the car back onto the roadway. True to his word, he didn't speak again, and when they pulled up in front of 221 Baker Street, Sherlock got out and slammed the door behind him without saying goodbye. As he pulled out his keys, he heard John's door open and slam shut as well, and then John was standing behind him.

"I thought you weren't coming in."

"I'm not staying. Just need to do one thing." John caught the door as soon as Sherlock opened it, pushed his way past him and bounded up the stairs. Muttering to himself, Sherlock followed more slowly. By the time he reached the door to 221B, John was already headed through the kitchen to Sherlock's bedroom, and a few seconds later he came out with a small cloth bag clutched in his fist. Sherlock's stash. Shit.

"Just making sure," John said, and headed out without waiting for a response, slamming the door behind him. Well, there was that option gone.

As soon as John left, Sherlock immediately shoved the food into the refrigerator so he wouldn't have to smell it, as it had suddenly gone from appetizing to nauseating. He locked the door to his flat (hoping, perhaps in vain, that it would keep Mrs Hudson out), toed off his shoes, and flopped down on the sofa without removing his coat. The flat was cold, he told himself. It wasn't like he was trying to hide under his coat, despite what John thought.

He pushed aside John's lecture, which had been wrong on nearly every point. It hadn't been worth correcting him on it because it would just lead to an argument. Where John was concerned, it was much better to simply wait him out. Without anyone to argue with, John would soon wear himself out and then he would leave him alone. He congratulated himself on coming up with this clever strategy for fending off John's intrusions into his personal life.

Now, on to the mind palace. With his newly healed hand tucked under his chin, he visualized the front door of the mind palace and was pleased to discover that his repairs from his previous session had held. He could still see smoke damage around the windows, but it didn't seem to be any worse than the last time. So far so good. Next job: find Redbeard.

He entered the front door cautiously, expecting to have to conjure up a torch again, but this time the lights came on, flickering a bit and dimmer than he would have liked, but at least he wasn't standing in complete darkness like his previous visits. He started off down the hall, slowly, peeking in all the doorways looking for Redbeard.

"Redbeard? Come here boy!" he called as he neared the corner, but the dog did not appear. He rounded the corner, thinking of only the dog, but was brought up short when he heard the strains of Three Blind Mice again, played haltingly on a three-quarter sized violin. Suddenly a vision of a dead Joshua Strauss floated in front of his eyes—blue-skinned, tongue out, eyes black. . . Sherlock felt his breath coming faster, harsher. GO AWAY! he shouted silently at the apparition, and it vanished as quickly as it had come, leaving behind the faint scent of smoke.

He stood outside the closed door for several minutes arguing with himself about whether he was going in. Yes, he must. He had to deal with this; if he didn't, he could go insane. If the vampire's death hadn't made it go away, then it wasn't going away on its own. He had to deal with it,  _now_.

He carefully felt the knob to find that it was no longer hot to the touch, although as he turned it and pushed the door open a crack, a puff of smoke came out through the opening. The door was lighter than he remembered (but then again, the last time he had entered this door he had been shrunk to child-sized) and he opened it just enough to slip inside.

The smoke was thick up along the ceiling, but thinner at his level, especially if he hunched over a bit. The lights were on, although they were dimmed by the gray mist that shrouded the room's contents. Sherlock peered around, squinting through the smoke that clogged his throat and set his eyes to streaming. Across the room he spotted a smallish figure seating in the wooden chair with his back to him. Would this be Joshua Strauss again, with his swollen blue face? Or would it finally be little Sherlock sitting in that uncomfortable chair? He wasn't sure which one would be worse.

After a quick glance around the room to determine the vampire wasn't lurking in a corner, he took a cautious step forward until he could make out that the boy had short, straight hair. The color was more muted than he remembered, more of a sandy brown than the usual bright ginger, but there were no unruly dark curls, so it wasn't himself he was seeing. After the second step, he could see, through the haze, a large dark shape next to the boy's knee. What was that?

He took another step, then another, until he could make out that the dark shape was Redbeard sitting next to the boy, with his chin on his knee. Sherlock squinted at him in surprise. So this was where Redbeard had gone, but why?

The boy continued to scrape the bow over the strings inexpertly in a halting rhythm, not seeming to notice Sherlock's presence. Now that Sherlock was closer, he could see that the boy's hair was definitely more of a light brown rather than ginger. Who was this, then, if not Joshua Strauss?

Sherlock came around the front of the chair and tried to see the boy's face, but as soon as he did so, the boy stopped playing, laid the violin on his lap, and lowered his head. Sherlock frowned down at the hair which was neatly combed back over a widow's peak. It seemed familiar.

The boy sniffed and dragged his sleeve across his nose, while his other hand tangled itself in Redbeard's fur, scratching behind his ears just like Sherlock knew he loved. Biting his lip, Sherlock lowered himself to one knee and peered upward into the boy's face, which was streaked with tears. Freckles, too-pointy nose, rounded jaw. . .

"Hello, Mycroft," he said softly.

* * *

Sherlock found himself sitting on Mycroft's front steps in the dark, staring out into the rain at nothing. He didn't know why he was there. He certainly didn't want to talk to Mycroft, but he had to get closure on this somehow, and his latest visit to his mind palace had convinced him that perhaps John was right (on  _one_  point, anyway) and Mycroft was the key.

After several minutes, he heard the door open behind him and a sliver of light illuminated the steps, casting his shadow on the walkway. He turned just enough to see Elenor's stout figure silhouetted in the doorway.

"Come on in, Sherlock," she said simply. "He's in the study." It was always "Sherlock" with Elenor. Mycroft was "Mr Holmes," or even "sir," but Sherlock was just Sherlock. He supposed it had to do with the fact that he had been a rebellious, obnoxious sixteen when she had met him, prone to showing up at Mycroft's door at all hours when he needed desperately to escape his mother's nagging but had nowhere else to go.

Sherlock wordlessly got to his feet and edged past her into the entryway. Elenor stood waiting to take his coat, but Sherlock just pulled it in more tightly around himself and headed off down the hallway in the direction of the study. He hadn't made up his mind to go in yet, but his feet led him there anyway.

The door stood halfway open, and Sherlock could see Mycroft sitting in a chair facing the fireplace with his back to him. The back of his neck was lightly freckled, just like in Sherlock's mind palace. Sherlock closed his eyes, but he could still see the image on the inside of his eyelids, so he opened them again, to find Mycroft had half-turned and was regarding him with a raised eyebrow.

Silently, Mycroft held up an empty tulip-shaped stem glass and a decanter of cognac. Well, it was too late to run away now. May as well take the opportunity to waste some of Mycroft's expensive stash. Sherlock crossed the room and took a seat in the other armchair facing the fire while Mycroft poured a healthy serving of cognac into the glass.

Mycroft held out the glass and Sherlock took it carelessly, almost disappointed when none spilled on the leather upholstery of the overstuffed chair. He swirled the cognac around in the glass, staring into the amber liquid for a long moment before taking a small sip that trailed like fire down his throat.

Finally Mycroft, who was also staring into his glass, broke the silence. "Do you know why Lindt committed suicide?"

"I imagine he realized he was a paedophile monster who didn't deserve to live," Sherlock blurted out bitterly.

"No. Sergeant Donovan talked to him."

Sherlock snorted into his cognac. "She tends to have that effect on people."

"She told him what would happen to him in prison. She told him to plead guilty to avoid a trial."

Sherlock's eyebrows pulled together in the middle while he digested this bit of news. Donovan could lose her job over a stunt like that. It seemed highly unlikely that she would risk herself to spare him having to testify. She must have had some other motive. "Why would she do that for me? She hates me."

"She didn't do it just for you, you self-centered git. She also did it for me and all the other victims."

"I don't understand."

"Oh? You don't understand self-sacrifice to save someone else?" Mycroft put down his glass and dug around in the pocket of his dressing gown. "Hold out your hand."

"Why?"

"Just do it, please."

Frowning, Sherlock held out his hand palm down, concentrating on keeping it steady. "I'm not high."

Mycroft silently took his hand, turned it over, and placed something warm and light in his palm. Sherlock gazed at it curiously: a small silver pendant on a tarnished chain. When he held it up, he discovered the jump ring that had held the clasp to the chain was broken. He carefully turned the pendant over in his hand to find a relief of a woman, seated, with a staff across her lap. The folds of her dress were worn almost smooth from years of handling. . . Oh, he recognized this pendant.

"This is Sergeant Donovan's necklace," he said with a frown.

"Yes. It fell off on her way out Lindt's door."

"How did YOU get it?"

"Figure that one out, clever boy." Mycroft took an unconcerned sip of his cognac.

"You were there too, at Lindt's."

Mycroft's eyebrows did a little nod of acknowledgement. "Yes, I went there later, after I saw her on the security video. He hadn't decided whether to take only one pill or all of them. I helped him make up his mind. Then. . ."—Mycroft paused to drain his glass with a grimace—"I deleted the evidence."

Sherlock rubbed the pendant between his thumb and forefinger, an oddly comforting gesture, while he thought about that. It didn't make sense for his straight-laced brother to risk his reputation, and even his career by breaking the law in this way. "Why? To get out of the assault charge?"

"Is that what you think?"

"If not that, then why?"

"I couldn't bear to watch you self-destruct," Mycroft said, staring into the remains of the amber liquid in his glass. His voice was hard, almost fierce. "He hurt you once; I wasn't going to let him hurt you again. I couldn't undo what I did by keeping silent back then, but I could protect you from further harm now."

"Maybe I  _wanted_  to testify."

"You know as well as I do that Ms Sorrell wanted revenge over her ruined career and reputation. If you had taken the stand, she would have stopped at nothing to destroy you."

Sherlock wrapped his fingers around the small pendant and squeezed it tightly. "If you cared so much about protecting me, why didn't you do anything at the time?" he asked bitterly.

"I couldn't," said Mycroft, shaking his head.

"Yes, you could have. If you had just said one word— _one word_ , Mycroft—this never would have happened to me."

"I did what I could."

"Which was what exactly? Bury your head in the sand? Hope it wasn't happening?"

Mycroft sighed. "I was away at school. I didn't know you were having lessons with him. As soon as I found out, I did what I could."

"What does that mean? Did what you could?"

"I arranged for a different teacher for you."

Sherlock frowned. A different teacher? He had a fuzzy memory of a large, frizzy haired woman waving a conductor's baton in time to a ticking metronome on the mantel. "You mean that Polish woman with the sour disposition and unpronounceable last name?"

"Mrs Tzmielewski, yes."

He made a face. "I called her Mrs T. She hit my knuckles whenever I said it wrong."

Mycroft's lip pulled up again. "Ah yes, the lisp that Mummy indulged for far too long. She thought it was adorable. She thought YOU were adorable. You certainly had her fooled."

"You told her to switch me to a different teacher? She didn't tell me that."

"That doesn't mean it isn't true. Mummy didn't want to be seen as taking orders from me."

Sherlock set his glass down on the side table and busied his fingers with attempting to fix the jump ring on Donovan's necklace as he processed this information. An image of little Mycroft in tears, sitting in an uncomfortable wooden chair, kept pushing its way to the forefront of his mind. That little boy was trapped, just as he had been.

"Why did you do that?"

"I didn't want you to get hurt. Despite what you think of me, I wouldn't wish that on you. I know I haven't always been the best big brother, but I tried. I l—" Mycroft broke off, staring hard into his empty glass, as if he might find his fortune written there. He let out a huff, then took a quick noisy breath. "I care for you, Sherlock."

Sherlock sat in silence, facing the fire but watching his brother out of the corner of his eye. Whatever happened to "caring is not an advantage?" His brother cared about nothing and no one. Proclamations of caring were so far outside of what he had come to expect from Mycroft that he had no idea how to respond. He could hear Donovan's voice echoing in his head, " _YOU are the only one he cares about_." Could she possibly be right?

Without looking up, Mycroft said, "Aren't you going to say it too?"

"Say what?"

"That you care for me too?" A tiny lilt in the intonation turned it into a question, one that Sherlock was not prepared to answer, but he could not help that his mouth twitched upward at the corner.

"Who says I do?"

Mycroft's head didn't move, but his eyes cut to the side, and when he caught a glimpse of Sherlock's face, the corner of his lip twitched upward as well.

Sherlock pushed himself out of his chair and held out his hand to return the necklace, but Mycroft shook his head. "No, it's your responsibility now."

"What am I to do with it?"

"I don't know. . . keep it, melt it down it for an experiment, use it to blackmail her. . . Or you could give it back to her."

Sherlock frowned down at the broken chain and worn pendant, warm from his body heat.  _Damaged_ , Donovan's voice whispered in his ear, and then Molly's voice chimed in.  _We are all damaged; what matters is what we do with it_.

He carefully tucked the necklace into his pocket, drained his cognac in one go, and headed out the door without saying goodbye. He was halfway home before he realized that he hadn't felt any ghostly hands touching him for the entire day, and he hadn't seen the vampire for at least a week, not since Donovan had shoved his clothes into his hands with a stupid grin on her face. Did that mean he was gone? Sherlock had no idea.

Sherlock put his hand in his coat pocket and rubbed his fingers over the ridges on the small silver pendant. His mind palace was damaged but could be repaired. Donovan had perjured herself to shield him from having to testify. John had deduced where his stash was hidden. Mycroft had said he cared for him, and had proved it by driving a man to suicide for hurting him. The whole world was upside down, but he wasn't sure he minded.

* * *

**A/N** : Nearly the end of the story! I'd love to read your comment. It would make me oh-so-happy!


	31. Something Good on a Tuesday

On Tuesday morning, Donovan dragged herself into work ten minutes late, with cold coffee down the front of her blouse and a bruise on her elbow from being squished into the side of the tube car by a large man with a body odor problem. Tuesdays sucked arse.

When she got to her desk, she noticed something strange, but in her addled state it took her a moment to realize what it was. When she had left on Monday evening, her desk had been cluttered with papers and files haphazardly stacked into messy piles. Now, however, all of the papers had been assembled into tidy stacks and her desk was clear save one file, which was neatly placed in the center of the surface. On top of the file sat a small white box tied with a blue ribbon.

Donovan stood for nearly a full minute gazing gormlessly at the box. What was it? Was it a threat? Suspicious package? It wasn't big enough for a severed head a la Se7en, but did it contain the severed finger of a loved one? Probably not, as her only "loved one" was her brother Alex, and he had had all his digits intact the previous evening when she met him for dinner.

She glanced around the room and saw that all her fellow officers were quietly working away at their desks. No one was paying the slightest attention to her. Constable Fadil was leaned back in his chair with his feet on his desk and his keyboard on his lap, absorbed in paging through images from what appeared to be security footage.

"Constable?"

Fadil straightened up in apparent alarm. "Yeah? I mean, yes ma'am?"

"Did you see anyone messing with my desk?"

"No, ma'am; it was like that when I came in."

"Oh."

"Everything all right?"

"Yeah, fine. Never mind." Dropping gracelessly into her chair, Donovan resumed her inspection of the box. Made of white tagboard, no marks on it that she could see, no smudges or writing of any kind. She leaned in and listened, but heard nothing. The box measured only about five centimeters tall and wide. She didn't see how it could be dangerous. Carefully she picked it up and shook it cautiously, and heard a slight rattling sound, like metal on metal.

Donovan pulled gently on the ends of the ribbon and the knot came undone. Dropping the ribbon, she cautiously removed the lid and inside she discovered a familiar sight: her Saint Monica pendant, strung on a shiny new silver chain. She quickly covered her gasp of surprise with a cough.

With trembling fingers, she pulled the necklace from the box and rubbed her thumb down the smooth, expensive chain and over the familiar folds of the saint's dress. She had difficulty managing the clasp, and once she finally got it hooked around her neck, the new chain felt cold and strange against her skin.

She picked up the box and inspected it again for identifying marks, but found none. When she went to set it back down on the desk, her eyes fell on the file folder that had been under it. It was one of hers—she recognized her handwriting in the case number scrawled on the tab. She flipped the folder open and saw a pair of familiar blue-green eyes looking back at her.

With her eyes misting over, she sat back and stared at the little face: the mop of dark curls, soft baby cheeks, pink cupid's-bow lips pulled down into a fierce scowl. Brushing her thumb along the curve of his jaw, she decided not to think about how he might have come by the necklace, just to accept it for the gift it was.

"Thank you, Sherlock," she mouthed with a half-smile. Such a sweet little face, even with the sour expression. She would have to remember that face the next time he was being a complete dick. Might help her remember that even the freak had once been a little boy.

Donovan flipped the folder shut and laid it on top of the pile to be filed. Case closed. Sliding her fingers along the silver chain, which had warmed against her skin but still felt alien to her touch, she considered what might be next. Her eyes lit on the pile of "open case" folders on her desk, many that had been neglected for far too long. Hmm. . .

Or maybe Lestrade wanted help with his investigation of Edward Goldwater. The case included a high chance of having to work with Sherlock, but perhaps that wouldn't be so bad.

* * *

**A/N** : Thanks for reading! And a huge thank you to everyone who has left me comments and kudos so far. I love to hear what you think! If you are interested in my other works, you can find them on FFN under the name Navigatio.


End file.
